


Hope

by Crux01



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-05 13:54:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11014770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crux01/pseuds/Crux01
Summary: The real way Series 7 and 8 should go. Just add a bit of spy stuff.......





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elvirra](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Elvirra).



> A very belated happy birthday to sweet Elina.  
> See what you and Ellie with your constant hopeful ponderings have made me do?
> 
> "Maybe, just maybe.........."

"Peter Quinn?!"

Carrie felt the familiar name, sweet on her lips like ambrosia and just as unreal. She stared at the neatly dressed man who turned to regard her with impeccable, but somehow misplaced, elegance. He raised his eyebrows as if she was some quaint oddity from the past and then his way too handsome face creased into a frown, lines that Carrie knew intimately, crinkling attractively at the side of his eyes, cheekbones razor sharp and dimples flashing fleetingly and then fading, as if they were unsure whether he was smiling or grimacing.

It was him, Carrie was sure but how the fuck?

And how many times since that awful day in New York had she approached a handsome stranger that had the air of danger, the confidence of his own agency, the explosive scent of her Quinn, only to have her hopeful expectation strangled at its birth?

It had to be him this time this was her last chance. 

She could no longer cling to the shredded ribbons of her sanity as she hung worrisomely above the gaping chasm of utter madness that waited below, eager to claim her. 

She could feel herself slipping.

_____________________________________________________________

(The preceding months.......)

She had given it all away and not in a good way. 

In a characteristically alcohol-based, drug fuelled messy way, which if she had ever been self-aware enough to think about it, she should have seen coming from the very beginning of her miserable youth. 

She had given up.

As night follows day, it was always bound to end in this way. 

The blows, designed to wound and maim were skilfully placed by a vengeful deity that wanted to make her pay. Just one would have been enough but when they attacked in unison, when she faced them all on her own, she could not possibly withstand them.

She wasn't getting Franny back.... ever.

Child Services had made that very clear. Maybe a couple of visits a month if she could get her shit together. Which she obviously couldn't, so that was a no no. And it was probably for the best. The kid had to have the worst two parents in the history of the world. Better a clean surgical cut from both, let nurture overcome what nature had produced.

For Carrie it was just another entry on her list of broken promises. All of which left her reeling. Promises broken to her father, her daughter, her sister, her lover, her colleagues, her country....... But that was what you get, what you deserve, she told herself critically, when you fuck a goddamn terrorist and make him into a hero.

The world was a shit heap and her life was just a fading underlining of that point. In the scheme of things nothing important. Nothing worth crying over. It served up only the brutal truth: There was no happiness, no love, everything was as fleeting as the doomed flight of a butterfly. Everything ended in the bottom of a wine bottle, the clinging sour dregs that pulled the cheeks together, that banished every memory of the earlier grape-fermented pleasure.

She took the job in London only to get away from the hate and distrust that followed her every move since that goddamn bitch the President started to round up everybody that Carrie had promised would be safe. Suspicion dogged her. Nobody trusted her, not her old friends in the CIA or the new breed of hungry hyenas that now hunted the corridors of power. She was an embarrassment, a risk not worth taking, a waste of investment. 

What do you do with a brilliant but broken toy? You send it to be mended or hide it in the depths of the toy box. Well, there was nowhere on the planet that could fix Carrie Mathison, so London became the bottom of the very deep toy box - out of sight and out of her mind.

She enjoyed it for a while. 

The culture, the sense of place, of history. A city that had stood for over a thousand years, eked out from the grime of the Thames into something lasting and impressive. A multi-cultural hub which, because its rulers meddled in other countries where they should not, had suffered more than its fair share of terrorist strikes down the years be it from the Irish or from ISIS. Regardless, its inhabitants died the same, splattered bleakly across the pavements. Candles, and latterly hashtags, could not silence the keen mourning of their wasteful loss. 

And slowly Carrie came to see that too many murders, too many ghosts, haunted the historic city's dank and dreary underbelly, too many lost souls wandered its streets after dark and, though the work was interesting, the mud of the Thames began to subsume her, pulling her down, back into the deep depression that her loss brought. November came and with it the cold, clammy fog, a shroud under which all hope died. Carrie fit right in.

Drugs and alcohol numbed her pain but did nothing to address its underlying cause. Her work became less important to her until it was empty and meaningless because she simply did not care. No country trusted any other, nothing was secure or confidential any more, everything was leaked and the fake newscasters ruled the internet as well as the airways. Nothing felt safe as the world lurched perilously closer to Armageddon.

Carrie was impervious. 

She felt no fear as she simply lost herself in a catalogue of toxic behaviours. She fucked any man that asked, trying to drown herself in the salty sting of semen and lust; it didn't work. How could it? It only served to widen the hole inside her, strengthen her demons, extenuate her loss until it was a canyon so deep it had to be unfathomable.

His ghost was everywhere, the metaphor for how badly she had fucked it all up. She saw him in McDonalds, walking by the river, in the cafe at work, in fact every time she closed her fucking eyes. And she missed him. Her mind fell over itself in a desperate lament for all the 'what ifs' she could conjure, each a further nail in the cross of her conscience. 

She crucified herself daily. 

What was that stupid line; "You don't know what you've got until it's gone?" 

Well, it had taken her five years, it had taken almost losing him to sarin gas, to numerous strokes and to his awkward struggle coming to terms with the damage she had done to him but gradually she had come to know. It was more than the mission. It always had been. She had even articulated it to that shrink, "I can't lose another one." She had said, not even trusting herself to say his name, seeking the safety of making him anonymous, one of the crowd of her betrayed lovers. But he had never been that. He had always been so much more.

And she had known. 

It had snook up and terrified her, it was true, but she had known....

And yet, she had still lost him. How fucking ironic was that? What Godly bastard thought that was a good idea?

In that moment of extreme despair, in the car, his bloody features lifeless, slumped on the seat beside her, she had done what she always did, refused to acknowledge the pain. Shut it down, tight. Pain couldn't hurt you if you refused to feel it, right?

Bullshit!

It could insidiously creep into the marrow of your bones, numb every synapse in your mind, and intimately strum every nerve in your body. It could silently and progressively take you over, so that it defined you. You ceased to be Carrie Mathison, you became simply a stagnant bag of bones and shit, good for nothing.

And the guilt, burning deep. 

Only later had she come to see that in shutting down her emotion, she had negated her feelings for him. Made his sacrifice meaningless, his love for her valueless and that was a fatal failing she could not overlook. 

He deserved so much more. Only a world of love and hope would have been good enough for him and she hadn't even allowed herself to give him a proper goodbye.

No wonder she was lonely and afraid, reaching out for even the merest sip of human kindness, looking for comfort while believing she deserved none of it and ending each night pickled in wine and regret.

The soirée at the Australian Ambassador's had been a mistake. She knew it as she chugged a whole bottle of wine in her apartment beforehand, her ten percent proof tears meandering lazily along her puffy cheeks that no makeup could mask. She oscillated alarmingly, unbalanced, as she chose her outfit, settling on a powder blue pant suit, of course. This was business, there would never be any pleasure, not any more. 

Low level security, boring and inevitable.

She had looked over the guest list many times, bored with the columns of names of people who thought themselves significant but really were not.

Quaffing too much champagne, but hell it was free, she wondered around the room that stank of overbearing egos and overpriced perfume until her eyes had fallen on the smartly dressed figure in stilted conversation at the corner of the room. Her alarm bell had sounded strong and true, deep in her gut. However, that in itself was nothing new, it was a weekly occurrence as her soul sought he who was permanently lost to her. As was the fragile and yet dogged seed of hope deep inside, bruised and battered by so many false starts, beginning to stir; the enduring promise of a beautiful blossoming enticing it to life once more.

Heart pumping the heaviest drum solo in her chest, eyes moistening and legs feeling too shaky to make the distance between them, she bravely summoned all of her strength, shoved aside the whispering voice of doubt and made her way towards him. 

His back was towards her but he was tall and lean, certainly the right height, maybe a little thicker around the waist. Dark hair was shorter than the last time she had seen him, neater, more like when he was in Berlin. There was something about the way he held himself, distant, lonely in a room full of intoxicated, shallow people, drunk on their own importance, he was aloof, somehow more distinct, drawn more intricately, deeper, than the rest.

Hesitantly, ignoring all else as her senses channelled everything on to him, she reached out her quivering hand and rested it on his shoulder. She squeezed gently and he turned.

Her voice was gravel and glue, lost somewhere on the desperate road between her vocal chords and her mouth. "Peter Quinn?"

His chiselled features frowned as he turned to face her but then smoothened into a sweet smile. She remembered his voice from her dreams, deep, dulcet but with the minor hesitation that slight aphasia brings. 

She knew it then, with a deep naive certainty, saw it in the ice blue of his eyes and all the doubts and disbelief disappeared like dew evaporating in the purity of the morning sunshine. A triumphant chord of sheer delight rang through Carrie's very soul as the bud of hope flowered gloriously. The dawning of something beautiful, so vibrant, so strong it completely drowned out the words that he said.

"Hey, I don't think we've met? My name is David Exley...."


	2. Chapter 2

“David Exley.”

It felt strange to begin with, like a new shirt, ill-fitting, too starchy, rubbing in places it shouldn't, not comfortable, but with time and in his darker moments, he had come to see it was kind of appropriate....Exley..... It fit because he was an ex, an ex-everything, ex-assassin, ex-CIA, ex-father, ex-lover, ex-Peter Quinn and ex-human being.

Yeah, Exley did just fine.

It wasn't like 'Peter Quinn' had been his for a lifetime either. There had been a time when it had been new, spotless and full of exciting possibilities, when it didn't feel familiar, or safe, not like a well-worn pair of boots that he had suffered blisters and corns to mould into the shape of his feet. He remembered his first time in the desert, the fucking sand, creeping into every nook, every cranny, his first pair of boots, shredding the skin from the back of his heels. 

Yep, he was full of delightful, desecrated memories of Peter Quinn. All tarnished, all tragic, all good for nothing except being thrown in the trash.

What was in a name anyway? What did it matter? 

Quite a lot actually. 

And as a man who had changed his identity with the regularity that a snake could shed its skin, he should know. 

What he did know with certainty was that Peter Quinn was better off dead, as a ghost to dwell in the memories of those who knew him, to linger in the subconscious of those who did him wrong, to haunt those who should have loved him. He died in a hail of bullets, a fucking hero that saved the President. Such a shame that she turned out to be a raving lunatic but par for the course in Peter Quinn's world. It was the sort of ending he should have come to expect.

For a while he was famous, his backstory picked apart by the scavenging vultures of the press, and it had been pretty heroic stuff, surviving many a CIA operation during the war in the Middle East and a sarin death chamber, only to die on the streets of New York City. 

All hail Peter fucking Quinn!

But only for a while, soon there were other atrocities, other deaths for the buzzards to gorge their ravenous, ever-empty media stomachs on and Peter Quinn was forgotten by all except a few who could not let go.

He felt like he had spent numerous lifetimes deluding himself that he was good at letting go but it was just one of a number of lies that had helped him get through the biting fear of those long and lonely nights. The evidence showed a different story. It took a long time for him to give of himself but when he did, he could not give up. Julia and John junior: though he had walked away, he had snook right back, keeping them somewhere in the depths of his black heart. Returning often when the chance arose, to lurk in the darkness and watch his son, to take sneak photographs of him growing up, becoming a man, without his father. That was Peter Quinn, never quite the star of the show, always lingering, unseen, in the shadows away from the spotlight because that was where he belonged. Dying was the only way he ever managed to get anybody’s attention.

Dar Adal: now there was a fucking complicated relationship. Peter Quinn should have killed him when he had the chance. Instead he had weakly walked away and left the old bastard's hook rooted deep to do further damage as required. 

And of course, there was Carrie Mathison, but the less said there, the better.

He remembered those last seconds of Peter Quinn's life with a lightness that belied the tragedy of the circumstance. There was a satisfaction, a fulfilment in letting go, in finally loosening his grip on the delicate silver thread of his lifeline, letting it slip away. Leaving the shit behind, walking away into the blackness. Lights out. Story finished. That had been what he deserved. What he fucking needed.

Waking up again was less pleasant. 

His first thoughts were 'why does hell smell of antiseptic' and 'why isn't it hot?' The truth was gut wrenching, he had failed again. There was a delicious fucking irony there, that he surely would have found amusing if he hadn't been the butt of the cruel joke. He didn't believe in God, but if by some miracle the creator was around, the guy sure had one evil sense of humour. Quinn could deal out death so well, the brutal emotionless assassin, the silent sniper. So talented, he had lost count of how many souls he had taken but he had also forgotten how many times he had tried to give up his own life and failed woefully. 

What sort of sadistic moron thought it was a good idea? Honestly, he felt like he was in some badly written TV show. Why was it so fucking hard to die? Why was he still stuck here when others found quitting their mortal coil so easy? Bouncing back was only a strength if you did it sparingly; nobody loved a clinger!

Such questions plagued him constantly in the expensive hospital he found himself when he woke up, stiff and depressed, angry and frustrated on soft, crisp cotton sheets. Clean and clinical. No piss-stinking Veterans Hospital this. No Clarence to take him out for those special blow job privileges here, only thin-lipped nurses with gentle hands who did not meet his eye and muscle-bulging orderlies sweating steroids and testosterone, eager to keep him in his place.

Somebody was paying through the nose to give him the very best treatment. Quinn could guess who it was.

What could he say? It was complicated.

"Do I have a choice?" He had asked when the man he knew as Sebastian had set out his rehabilitation plan.

Sebastian had smiled a cheery grin more fitting on a children's entertainer than a deep spook. "Nope," he had said sweetly.

"I want to talk to Dar," Quinn spat through gritted teeth.

"That's not possible at the moment. Maybe if you're a good boy and take your medicine, I'll see what I can do." Sebastian patted him on top of his head encouragingly. He never failed to be happy even when he was giving the most distressing news. Quinn wished he could have some of whatever he was on. 

But he really should not complain. Not only did they mend his bullet busted shoulders, they also operated on his drop foot. He was always gonna have a limp, never be the man he once had been, but he was getting better. Extensive speech therapy helped as did the physical therapy and exercise regime they put him through. A real montage of rehabilitation that he threw himself into wholeheartedly partly because of the happy drugs they filled him with but also because, well, there really wasn’t any other option. Maybe sometime he would prove to himself that he actually had some value, that death wasn't the best option for him. Maybe.

Sebastian came to his room one day in the spring. The window was open, a light breeze fluttered the flowery drapes and the sweet birdsong drifted in. A noisy bumble bee industriously inhaled the fragrant blooms in the vase on his dresser and then buzzed his pleasure at his sweet success. It felt almost idyllic. 

Sebastian whistled happily along with the birds as he put the passport, the pills and the bank cards down on the table. Quinn rolled his eyes but said nothing, just regarded them.

"You are David Exley," Sebastian began.

"I remember," Quinn growled. Oh, how he remembered, a fucking lakeside cabin - once his dream, the smell of pine needles, geese honking on the wing above, the cold as death black water pulling his weakened limbs down, bullets zinging around his ears and Astrid. 

Poor dear Astrid.

Guilt was a familiar acquaintance to him and it raised its ugly head, eager to interject once more, at her name. He pushed it away with practised aplomb. It was not a beneficial ally, did no one any good; he had learned that at least.

"A classics professor at...." Sebastian continued.

"No," Quinn cut across him, voice cold, ice blue eyes flashing with the threat of something violent, volatile as gun powder. Dangerous and implacable.

Sebastian stopped, genuinely perplexed. "No?"

Quinn reached across, picked up the documentation, stuffed it into his bag. "I got my own plans," he said. 

It felt good, taking back control, refusing to be the twig drifting impotently on the flow of Dar Adal's inexorable current headed God knows where. The old bastard had interfered once too often in his life. His elaborate plot to save him after Quinn's drive of death was the last straw. Quinn remembered their conversation at the lakeside cabin before it all spiralled out of control. Dar Adal gave him one last chance. 

Well, this time he was taking it.

"But Mr Adal...."

"Tell him to go fuck himself."

Sebastian blanched, apparently unused to such outright disobedience, not to mention the coarse language; he was a gentle soul or at least that was the part he played. Who really knew anybody? Obviously with an eye on the awards season, he sniffed, looked like he might cry. "Mr Adal will be disappointed."

"And that will make me tremendously happy."

David Exley had walked out of the hospital, all his limited possessions in the duffel bag slung over his shoulder, with only the faintest limp and the strongest conviction to leave his past behind. He had not the slightest urge to reconnect with any of his old colleagues, especially not her. He had known for so long they were bad for each other. Just look at the horrors that happened when they were together. He had loved her, he was willing to admit but she had never felt the same for him and things had gone to shit. In retrospect, it was easy to see she was never getting over that fuckwit terrorist Nicholas Brody and he had been a fool to ever hope she would. 

She had let him go, finally, and he had to do the same with her.

Better apart. 

For everyone's sake.

He kept the David Exley name knowing it may lead to complications later but Dar Adal was too busy saving his own ass from the charge of treason that mad-as-fuck President had laid at his door. In the future, his erstwhile mentor may well seek to find him but David Exley didn't care about what may happen. Disabilities under control and PTSD fully medicated, he was too concerned about learning to feel again, about extending his senses to the limit, about living again, about being present in the real world with real, normal people instead of the shadowy hell Peter Quinn had inhabited.

And for a while being free of everything was a blast. 

He spent time in the brothels of South East Asia, losing himself in alcohol and sex with plenty of pretty girls who brought their lithe, slippery young bodies and pretty smiles and no further baggage to burden him. Not a one had blonde hair, all were dark and mysterious and so not Carrie Mathison that even he began to believe he was over her.

But steamy sex in the swelteringly humid bars of Bangkok although good for physical release, did not fix a damaged soul. It didn't take long for him to see through the gossamer thin veneer into the sordid, diseased underworld that dwelt below. He gave a couple of girls enough money to get out and bolted himself.

Next stop India, like so many Westerners before him, seeking answers to questions too profound for words. He met a holy man in a shabby hut, the floor festooned with rose petals, close enough to smell the Ganges, sacred cows wondering past benignly. All heady stuff. But when the guy pulled out a lap top and started discussing the world news, Quinn lost interest in the sanctity of his pronouncements and beat a hasty retreat. He found no life affirming revelation there.

From the sweaty, people-infested snake pits of Asia he travelled north to the unpopulated forests of Canada. Breathing in the pure, fresh air, he climbed mountains, walked for days without seeing another soul and enjoyed the loneliness of the big sky without ever being truly lonely. But again, it was only ever a short-term experience, a cleansing not a mending of his damaged soul and he eventually found himself wanting to reconnect. To meet people, to communicate, to enjoy the company of others. 

Truth was, the past was not so easily forgotten, he had killed people for a living, and every time he had, he had ripped away a piece of his soul, stepping away from his humanity, embracing the darkness, slithering down the slippery slope that lead straight to hell. The easy way to survive, and so attractive for him, had been not to feel anything. Easier. His attempts at relationships had all ended in abject failure and so, he had learned to live, to prosper in that dark world, distant, alone. Burnt out and too damaged to care.

Peter Quinn had existed in that friendless place and the catastrophic hole inside him had just got vaster, eating away his soul.

The thing was, he saw things differently now. He recognised his flaws, his faults, that he had spent his whole life on the move. Transient, not daring to stay in any one place, with any one person. Running away. It didn't work and now he instinctively saw he needed something solid, something firm that he could believe in and connect to. Something that could begin to fill up the cavernous hole inside. Like the massive fir trees he had walked past in the Canadian wilderness, he needed firm roots, needed to plant himself somewhere for the duration and grow.

He found himself in London, only because the next flight out of the Canadian airport he washed up in, a scruffy piece of human flotsam, was bound for Heathrow. It really was that random. Cleaning up his act, actually enjoying the churn of the city and the routine of a job, he took a position at the Australian Embassy, starting as a security guard on the front desk, he was soon promoted to security consultant. He was still vastly overqualified but he didn't care.

He got a small flat north of the city, ignored the pull of guilty memory when he saw the red haired little girl who lived with her parents on the ground floor, caught the tube and enjoyed the walk along the Strand to Australia House. Got on well with the team he worked with and caught the eye of one of the economists in the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade. She was called Sylvie, dark and petite with the most beautiful deep autumn brown eyes he had ever seen and a penchant for tight, short skirts. What she lacked in size, she made up for in her sheer voluminous personality that entered a room a good minute before the rest of her. She developed the habit of wondering over to his desk on a frequent basis, chattering endearingly in a broad Australian accent that he found sexy as hell. 

At first, he thought he was mistaken, he had never been really good at reading the signs, fucked up too many relationships to trust what his senses where telling him. It was impossible, how could a gorgeous woman like that find anything attractive in a stammering, limping, aphasic cripple? But she wasn't slow at coming forward and made her intentions blindingly obvious. When he began to believe it, his first instinct was it was too soon, he should run, but he didn't. He wanted to connect, didn’t he? To find something real. What had he got to lose? Why should he not give it a shot? David Exley had a chance at the kind of happiness that had eluded him for the whole of his life, why shouldn't he at least try? So, with butterflies in his stomach, like a teenager going to his first prom, he bought himself a new conservative but fashionable dark suit and accepted her invitation to the cocktail party at the Embassy the following night. Didn't think twice about the fact that the American Ambassador had been invited, except to ensure the security arrangements were in place.

The height difference turned out to be a touch awkward. He towered over her even though she was wearing the highest heels known to man. He had to bend to hear her over the buzz of conversation in the room and even then, he didn't pick up everything she said. He found himself nodding inanely and hoping that he was not offending her in any way. She prattled on regardless and he found himself smiling at the sheer lust for life that oozed off her like an expensive perfume, surely the most effective aphrodisiac on the planet. Was he falling in love with her? Too soon, he cautioned himself again but there was a gooey, warm feeling fluttering at the pit of his stomach that he couldn’t comprehend. He was almost relieved when they moved to talk to a group of her friends and he sipped at his teeth-rotting sugary cocktail, he had asked for just a beer, she had ignored him and thrust the sickly coloured, nuclear monstrosity into his hand. He had never done parties very well and here was another danger - polite conversation. He wasn’t up to that yet so he didn't say a lot, didn't trust his voice to find the words in this company. But he forced himself to smile and liked it when Sylvie returned the gesture. 

He was just beginning to relax, to feel a little less anxious and even attempt to join in the conversation when he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. He turned and all of his hope, his poise, his composure, deserted him. Suddenly he felt like a bug waiting for the squash of a windshield on a freeway.

"Peter Quinn?!" Carrie Mathison said, familiar face made ugly by disbelief, jaw making the preparations to wobble and eyes flashing wildly.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! This could not be happening. 

How in hell had she found him and what the fuck was he supposed to do now? Stay cool. He'd endured far more dangerous situations than this. 

It was only crazy Carrie.

After all.

He forced his features from the frown that they had adopted, unbidden, into an anaemic smile. Keeping his voice calm, he felt like he was reading off some cheesy script as he said, "Hey, I don't think we've met. I'm David Exley......."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Audience participation: Let me know who you want David Exley to end up with Carrie or Sylvie?
> 
> There's a poll on Twitter or just leave a comment here.
> 
> You tell me, I'll write it!


	3. Chapter 3

"Hey, I'm David Exley. I don't think we've met."

It didn't ring true, even to him but he threw in his most pleading smile for her, hoping against hope that she would relent, but, of course, she didn't notice. Had she ever picked up on anything he had tried to tell her? Except work of course. With work they were on the same fucking punctuation mark, let alone the same page. But not where personal issues were concerned. Then, she was on another planet.

True to form she wouldn't let him off any hook, she simply stared at him. "No, you're fucking not," she scoffed. Wild eyes staring their challenge aggressively.

He tried again politely. "You must be confusing me with someone else." But he stumbled over the words like the cripple he was, his hesitation revealing his subterfuge as brazenly as a neon sign flashing on his forehead.

Awkward wasn't a strong enough word to describe the sudden temperature drop around them. The healthy conversation had withered and died like it had been exposed to a thoroughly toxic chemical. Quinn felt like everyone in the whole gathering was staring at them. His confidence, questionable at best, began to falter as he felt his cheeks burn in stubborn disregard to the icy chill that surrounded him. Sylvie was looking up at him, eyes wide with questions but asking none of them. Somebody giggled, uncomfortable and nervous, others looked away, unable to stand the cringeworthy tension.

He had to do something but what?

Instinct kicked in. 

He grabbed Carrie's arm at the elbow, and stiffly began to move her away. "Excuse us for a second," he said vaguely.

He thought he heard Sylvie saying something about 'top secret security business' and forcing out a constipated laugh but the embarrassment was ringing too loudly in his ears to be sure. Carrie shook her arm, trying to dislodge him but he was staying put, elegant as a limpet, manoeuvring her to the nearest exit.

"Arrgh," she snorted, her voice had all the melody of fingernails scratching on a blackboard. "You're fucking hurting me!"

"Ssssshut up!"

He made it to the nearest door, ill at ease, he pushed her through it in front of him and followed.

"Fuck!" she said. Turning to regard him with a mixture of anger and disbelief, she looked more like some mythical banshee than an intelligence officer.

He drew in a ragged breath; his legs were trembling so he leaned against the door he had just banged shut behind him.

"We're in the fucking Ladies restroom, idiot!" she scoffed. For someone who had a pretty face she could get ugly real quick.

He looked about himself, eyes falling on the swish shag pile carpet, the plush stalls in front of him, the sinks to his left and the shiny hand drier on the wall. All of it in a dazzling shade of pink, and all embellished with the harsh, nostril-flaring-perfume of artificial pine. 

Shit.

He ran his hand through his hair, thought about bolting but could tell from the way Carrie was looking at him that she would try to stop him.... fuck, another scene in front of all those people, he just couldn't handle that.

Here would have to do. Was kind of appropriate actually - shit was gonna go down. But who knew the Aussies liked pink bathrooms?

"What the fuck are you doing here?" she asked.

"I wwwwork here."

"Really?" The disbelief made her voice bitter as lemons. "Funny, I didn't have you down as a kangaroo and didgeridoo man. In fact, I had you down as a fucking dead man!"

He took a deep breath, bit his lip as his frustration grew.

So that was the way she wanted it. Attack, attack, attack. So Carrie, he shouldn't have been surprised but somehow he was. She must have been at the back of the line when the milk of human kindness was being dished out.

His heart was thundering unhealthily in his chest, sticky sweat drying down the indentation of his spine, limbs shuddering spastically. Worst of all, words wouldn't come. He tried to recall the exercises the speech therapist had given him but his mind was reeling. 

Typical. 

Less than five minutes in her company and all his progress had been nullified. He had reverted back to the fucking monkey she had made him into.

She was breathing hard, staring at him as if she would find the answer to all her difficult questions by making a thorough analysis of his face. Unable to stand still, she oscillated on the spot from one foot to the other and back again. Formidable and frightening. Despite himself he felt a hot spurt of lust flash through his loins. How come that part of him was working just fine when his voice obviously was not?

"So?" she spat.

He cocked his head, trying to match the venom in her voice. "So?"

"I'm waiting for a fucking explanation. You were dead in that car last time I saw you."

"Obviously not. Maybe your paramedic skills aren't as good as you thought they were?" He could snap back too, it just took him a little longer and somehow lacked the panache she brought.

"Who got you out?"

"Does it matter?" This was so fucking uncomfortable, he looked past her, eyes desperately searching for a way out. Only goddamn pink flock wallpaper met his frustrated stare.... that was no help, no help at all.

Stubborn as a dog with that legendary bone, Carrie wasn't letting go any time soon. "Of course, it fucking matters. I thought you were dead. I mourned you."

His hopelessness growing, fighting back was his only option, so he woke the warrior, almost forgotten but never forgiven, that had been long dormant inside and he prepared for battle. "Did you really, Carrie? Did you even give me that?"

She could still do affronted so well. Jesus, it was vintage Carrie all right, had she not changed at all? She recoiled, horrified. "What do you mean?"

He kept pushing forward, giving no quarter because he knew he would get none from her, but still struggling, no finesse here, none at all. "Did I really matter that much to you?"

"It was Dar, wasn't it?" She sidestepped his question about her feelings, as she always did. But she was calming a little because she obviously thought she was winning.

Of course, she was. 

It was always such a fucking competition with her. He never had a chance. She let out a humourless chuckle. "You're right, what the fuck does it matter. What are you doing here, Quinn? Why didn't you contact me?"

"My name is David Exley." He said it stubbornly, with as much concentrated conviction as he could muster, which was next to nothing as he tottered on the edge of the rabbit hole once more. 

She pouted and rolled her eyes. "I get it. I know all about exit plans, remember? Remember when you helped me with mine?"

"Stop it, Carrie."

"Stop what?"

He snorted, took a hesitant step forward away from the door but his legs were still creaky and comatose so he had to grab hold of the sinks to stay upright. He set the goddamn hand drier off and for a moment its metallic buzz filled the room, but only for a moment.

Then the silence came down, dense and suspicious, like a widow's black veil, hanging between them. He was breathing heavily, trying to get the oxygen into his system but still felt light headed and a little sick. She was just glaring at him with enough power to light up a small town. Jesus, why did it always come to this? But he knew he couldn't say the words she needed to hear, would never be able to. 

Disengage. 

He told himself. 

Don't get drawn in.

So, they remained hopeless, doomed, chained together and yet worlds apart. What good was always finding each other if you could never live with what you found?

"So, what happens now?" she said finally.

"You know the protocol." He hid behind the rules of a game he no longer played.

"Protocol?" she cackled. "Don't tell me you're on some deep cover mission cos I don't believe you. I know everything that's going on in this town." Professional pride made her appear petty and graceless.

He felt so tired, so done. "It doesn't matter. Protocol is the same."

"Yeah, well I'm an off-book girl, as you know. Fuck protocol."

He gulped but stuck to it resolutely. "I'm gonna walk out of here and not look back," he said.

She folded her arms, almost stamped her foot. "You don't mean that."

"I do." 

He turned toward the door, reaching out for the handle, just as it banged open and nearly knocked him flying. An overweight, buxom, middle aged lady with hair that matched the colour scheme of the restroom was framed in the doorway. She looked most put out and opened her large mouth to make a robust comment but suddenly took cognisance of the two sets of hardass CIA-trained eyes that were staring witheringly at her. She deflated in an instant like a big balloon going down but without the bang, all of her bluster vanishing. She muttered an apology and exited as quickly as she could.

The door banged shut again, leaving them to their torment once more.

Quinn shook his head and turned back to Carrie. "There is no point. I'm not the man I was. I need to let go of all of that."

For a fleeting, glorious moment, he really thought she was listening to him, that she understood his point, would even coalesce to his request but what she said next caused something deep inside of him to shatter with the heart-stopping crash of a cut-glass chandelier falling from a great height.

"I read your letter."

He knew instantly what she meant, felt the sinking feeling right in the pit of his gut as his short-lived hope seeped out onto the spotless carpet. Playing for time he said, "What letter?"

"Your last letter." Carrie was speaking too fast, clutching at her words like they were a lifejacket in a stormy sea. Like they could save her. Well that may or may not be the case but they could only drown Quinn. He felt the swirling currents of despair, of disbelief pulling him under as she continued, "The letter you left. Dar gave it to me. The one that said you loved me."

The rising waves of panic overwhelmed Quinn then, the implicit threat sent him into operative mode as half-forgotten training kicked in inappropriately. He covered the distance between them in one stride. Before he could control himself, he had reached out to grab her by the collar of her pant suit jacket, his other hand was raised to strike. She pouted defiantly, daring him to do it, the teasing school girl full of her own selfish desire. 

It was wrong and he knew it. Only she was able to reduce him to this and she did it with so little effort. Desperately, drawing on every technique that had ever been drummed into him, he worked hard to grab back his control.

They stood motionless caught in the perfect moment, statuesque, encased seemingly forever, a snapshot glorifying domestic violence.

"You tell me this now?" He managed to say through grimacing lips, spitting it into her face from only inches away as he shook her so roughly her teeth chattered. Then he dropped his hand, turned away, tried to let go of his anger, to disconnect. 

"It's too much."

She took a hesitant step toward him, animated by her desperation and need. "But you said..."

"Stop it!" he bellowed.

"Quinn...." she groaned.

And then, without warning, she was disintegrating in front of him, like a fragile snowflake melting in the sun. He had a sudden rush of regret, a need to take responsibility, a duty to help her but he could not. He had failed before and almost lost himself in the process. He had seen her at her worst, thought he could cope, steer her on the right path. How stupid had he been? She had pulled him into her orbit, burnt him with the raw power of her sun as she imploded spectacularly, torching everything within her range. 

He had barely survived. 

He could not allow her to do it again. He had to leave her for his own wellbeing, his own sanity. Now he knew with a damning certainty that he had to get far away from her own particular brand of crazy.

He drew in a shuddering breath, pulled every inch of his strength together, forced himself to move. "Enough!" He hissed and stalked out of the restroom.

Somehow, feeling shaken and ill, he found his way to Sylvie, who looked at him with huge, sympathetic eyes. "What happened?" she asked.

"Nothing," he mumbled.

"Who was that crazy lady?"

He managed a shrug. "Doesn't matter now."

"Are you sure? You look kinda crook."

He smiled bravely. "Maybe I should go home."

"Are you kidding me?" Sylvie replied. "I'm coming too. These shoes have been killing me all night. It'll be a pleasure to take them off." She winked. "I wanna get pay back too."

"Pay back?" 

She was sweet and good, unselfishly giving of herself to repair what she sensed was damaged in him, so different from what he had just staggered away from and he felt himself unconsciously gravitating toward her. 

"Too right, mate." Sylvie reached up, pulled his face down to hers and planted a wet kiss on his surprised lips. "That's you, you're pay back, in case you're too modest to realise. Come on, let's get a cab. I'm taking you home with me."

He laughed, unable to control the feeling of relief as it welled up inside of him, blasting aside the dark guilt that had loitered threateningly on the edge of his consciousness since he left the rest room. Since he left Carrie Mathison to her fate. 

"Are you kidnapping me?" he tried to match her gaiety. Failed, but told himself it was the thought that counted.

"Damn right!" she disclosed happily, pushing her arm through his, smiling broadly and easing him towards the door as she waved to her friends.

In the end, they didn't go straight home. Instead they ignored the cool November rain and took a walk down to the embankment, past the London Eye, blinking on the other side of the dark river and up to Tower Bridge. The tourist boats were tied up at the edge of the dark waters, all slumbering silently as they bobbed on the rhythmic, gentle waves. The throbbing beat of the only party boat courageous enough to brave the elements drifted towards them and somewhere the blaring of a police siren ripped the air but all of it was a long way away. It was late and empty and creepy, the ghosts of the past, with their guilt and secrets were close, lingering on the cold drops of drizzle that blurred the city lights as they shimmered around them but they huddled close and ignored the threat. Safe in their impenetrable bubble of simple togetherness.

Sylvie swore like a trooper as she dispensed with her shoes and they got a 'Boris bike' from the wrack to finish the journey. She sat on the seat and he stood on the pedals, a flashback to the carefree teenage years that he had never had. When they reached the stone steps of the bridge, he lifted her, light as a doll, and carried her up to the roadway where they hailed a cab, giggling and giddy, untouched by the rain.

He liked Sylvie. 

He liked her a lot. 

She was cute and joyful and uncomplicated. She brought no baggage and yearned for little except a good time. She didn't take the world or herself seriously and laughed riotously and regularly with the whole of her petite frame. And she made him laugh like he had never done before. He relaxed with her. She was gentle and receptive and clearly attracted to him despite his physical limitations and his mysterious past. 

She accepted him as he was. 

She was everything any man should ever want in a woman.

But that night, when he made love to her, at the peak of arousal, out of control, deep in the throes of passion, as the orgasm started to roll deep within, it wasn't Sylvia's face he saw. As he closed his eyes in sweet surrender, there was another face printed indelibly on the back of his eyelids....

Carrie Mathison.

And with the vision of her familiar features came the cock-shrivelling recognition, the joy-stealing revelation that she had read his fucking letter.


	4. Chapter 4

It was freezing. 

The grim, moist November had given way to a crisp, stark December as it often did in this part of the world. The morning sky was brightening to a brilliant blue, crisscrossed with the vapour trails of planes, making Scottish flags as they escaped high above to God knows where. 

Carrie shivered, her breath coming out in wisps of dragon’s breath, hanging lazy but expectant on the cold air that surrounded her. 

Since that awful night at the Australian Embassy, she had tried, really tried. 

Alone in the palatial pink restroom, she had pulled herself together, refused to give in to the misery that fought to claim her. Gazing in the mirror at the haunted face that always looked back at her, pretending to reapply her lipstick, when other punters had drifted in, at first unsure and then relieved, she had taken a deep breath and resolved to endure. Told herself she could survive this. 

So, he did not want her, well she didn't want him, never had.... lying to herself was a practiced art of which she was a master. But deep down in the very marrow of her bones, she knew that his rejection had further fanned the flames of her need, lit so unexpectedly when she had seen his ghost, but not a ghost, alive and corporeal, before her. It was quite simple. She wanted what she couldn't have, always had done.

But she told herself not this time. This time she would be strong.

She had managed to last a week, spinning on the edge of action, dithering, unable to focus on anything of note, until she finally succumbed and checked the files for David Exley. As she suspected, she found nothing. Undeterred, she resorted to more mundane methods, hanging out across the Strand from the Australian Embassy, like a sleazy PI in a 70s cop show, waiting for him to emerge.

When he did, arm in arm with a little doll of a woman, she laughed at the ridiculous sight they made, and ignored the bitter dagger of jealously that cut straight into her heart. She followed them, telling herself she wasn't stalking him, it was simple curiosity that fuelled her, a need just to see if he was all right. But when she got near enough to hear their inane and happy chatter, his laugh, deep and melodious, and she realised, in all their time together, she had never heard it, the bitter need grew stronger.

She was surprised to find he lived in a converted warehouse near the canal in Camden, trendy and not cheap, not sustainable on a security guard's wages that was for sure. But she figured his exit plan to become David Exley must have included a substantial amount of money. Still, she never dreamed Quinn would live somewhere like that and she spitefully wondered whether it was the influence of this poisoned dwarf he had taken up with.

Jealous thoughts came easily and Carrie saw the danger. She could wallow in the pain, torment herself with 'what ifs' but she did not want that. She wanted to be bigger than the pettiness, she wanted to prove she had grown. So, she stood outside the entrance to his block of flats on this day with a simple plan; her heart was trying to make amends, to find closure, to let go in a way that he obviously had, although the faintest hope that he would have her back, flickered still, a brave candle in a strengthening north wind.

She stiffened as she heard the elevator grind to a bumpy stop. Her mouth went dry as the door squeaked open and there he was, framed in the doorway, stepping into the light and she felt her belly tumble like a gymnast.

"Hey." She took a hesitant step towards him, pushing away her anxiety, forcing a smile.

He looked at her, body wrapped in the warmth of his winter coat, cold and unfriendly, almost turning back to the sanctuary of the dark elevator but he didn't. Instead he drew in a deep breath and gave her that withering look that took her way back to the sweltering heat of Islamabad.

"I hate surprises," he muttered, followed by, "I thought you'd fucking come."

"Well, it's not a fucking surprise then, is it?" It was out before she could stop it and he flinched noticeably. "Sorry, sorry," she followed up, raising her hands in a placating motion. "I'm not here to fight."

He snorted, still hovering on the edge of the doors. "What are you here for, Carrie?"

"To talk."

He raised an eyebrow at that, looked past her as if searching for the cavalry to rescue him. No cavalry, just a white van went by, engine whining, diesel choking the still, cold air. She could almost see the cogs in his head pondering the position. They were slower than they had once been, she knew, but he was still fucking diamond sharp. He could read a scene, know when his position was hopeless. 

He nodded. "Not here."

"Where?"

“It’s freezing. You must be cold.” He stepped toward her. "Coffee shop on the way to the station. I normally get a takeout but..." He shrugged and moved past her and she got a brief scent of him, that aftershave he always wore, sending memories skittering through her head like a nest of spiders suddenly disturbed and scattering for shelter.

What was this? He was scared to be alone with her? He wanted a public place, witnesses? The fuck? Her mind was whirring as she turned to follow. Was it because he thought he might kill her? A stupidly overused expression for most but frighteningly possible as far as he was concerned. She had seen the black anger flash in his eyes when he had grabbed her in the restroom. He had never hurt her before, but he was much changed. Or was he afraid that in listening to her, he would fall under her spell once more? Of the two scenarios, Carrie liked that one best, so she clung to it as they made their silent, unbearable way along the uneven pavement past the life-shorn trees that stood in solemn sentry, bare limbs reaching despondently towards the sky, as the fruits of last summer’s labour rotted on the frosty floor below.

“We had some good times, didn’t we?” she tried to fill the silence.

He ignored her, struggled on.

Steadfastly, she tried again, trying to make her voice light, friendly. “It was the worst of times, and the best of times.”

He stopped then, turned to look at her disdainfully. “The fuck, Carrie? You turned into Charles Dickens?!”

“Well, more of that later, maybe,” she muttered but he was already moving again and she wisely decided not to try any more small-talk. She had known it would never fit with Quinn but she was so jumpy and on edge her mouth seemed to have developed a will of its own.

His walking was not as good as she thought it would be. At the embassy, he had appeared almost back to normal but he struggled now and his left hand hung limply at his side. She wondered if it was the cold or her presence that seemed to unman him.

The coffee shop was called Antz and the hot air of its innards, enhanced with the scent of newly roasted coffee, massaged like a balm as they entered from the cold outside. The windows were steamed up and chubby fingers had drawn a smiley face by the door. It was filled with frazzled mothers who had just dropped off their autistic-energised children at the local school and were wearily refuelling on cappuccinos and bagels before returning to their homes to complete the rest of the day until it was time to pick up their wild kids once more. The place was unusually decorated with a platoon of painted black stick ants marching purposely around, looking like they had mistakenly climbed into a pot of ink and clambered out to run away and be immortalised, trapped on the smooth white walls forever. 

Carrie liked it instantly, it appealed to the eccentric clouds of craziness that floated in her mind.

Quinn went to get coffee, refusing her offer of help, so she sat on the slouching leather sofa that had seen better days but was actually extremely comfortable, beside a harassed young woman who was trying to entertain her toddler with a brightly coloured rattle while sipping on her flat white. The kid was having none of it and stubbornly continued to try to climb out of her pushchair as if her life depended on it.

Such a sight always made Carrie weepy, sad for a remembrance of what she had lost, that, if she was honest, she had never really had. She smiled at the woman even as she pushed the thought away, dredging up other images in her mind to overlay the ones of Franny that pained her. 

But other memories were no less hurtful, as she saw Quinn struggling towards her with two frothy coffees on a tray balanced precariously in his right hand, she recalled other times he had brought her coffee. After they had taken Javadi, the crimson blood like a red rose blooming on his shirt front and in Islamabad at the airport, his hair uncharacteristically short, just before Sandy's cover was blown and before that at the safe house, watching Brody, sassy Quinn had turned up every morning with a coffee for her. Even though she had childishly refused to acknowledge him.

How had she not seen it? Why had she been so stupid? How much it fucking hurt that he had been right in that flag house, it had really always been the mission for her. So fucking focused, so closed off that she had missed what was right before her.

She despaired. 

She still did not understand what the world wanted from her. She had closed off her emotions, been the drone queen and that had not worked and then after the sarin and the stroke and the letter she had tried to love him, to be what he needed but he had thrown that in her face, turned away to the darkness and sacrificed himself to the violence that had stalked him.

For what? 

For what!

It was always so fucking confusing with them. Drawn together but ripped apart.

It was like some fucking cosmic script writer was making the story up as he went along, vascillating sickeningly from making one moral point to another and never truly establishing any. 

She could not understand what was wanted of her, what she needed to do.

Quinn placed the tray down in front of her, his sharp features set in concentration to deliver such a menial task and she felt it again. The ripping tear of loss, the man he had been, the friend she had had. It would never be the same, could never be the same again. 

Could it?

He sat across from her, easing himself down, choosing a hard-backed chair, rubbing his left leg, raising his eyes, ice blue and looking straight into her soul. "So, talk," he said.

Just like that. He had never been verbose, never spent his allotted words needlessly on pleasantries and banter. Why would he do so now?

And suddenly all her thoughts, her hopes were lost, what did she want to say? Why had she come?

She stood up, banging the table with her shins, hard, sweet pain, a kind of release. "I shouldn't have come."

He reached out then, his hand, large and benign, rested on her arm. She looked at it, gulped.

"Running away?" he said, his voice honeyed. "Surely, that's my tactic not yours. Not Carrie Mathison, she never runs away."

Tears formed in her eyes and there was a sudden boulder in her throat so her breaths could only get through in short, sharp gasps. She looked away, unable to hold his stare but simultaneously allowing his hand to press her down on to the sofa again. 

A baby cried close by, that weird weak hungry cry but the hubbub of the coffee shop fell away. There was just her and him, focused, together in the tunnel of their past, bleak and beaten, stretching out behind them, lit by pain and misunderstanding and loss, and halted at this very moment. The possibilities for what happened next were endless but she feared she knew how this would end. 

Badly.

She had to try, she knew it. "I've had a lot of time to think, to really think about things." She began, stumbling in the dark, outside the tunnel walls, alone and afraid, not sure where she was going. She laughed, bitter as the cold coffee forsaken by the last customer in the mug on the table in front of her. "To see how I screwed things up."

His hand was still on her arm and he squeezed gently. "We all did."

His calm acceptance undid her and she felt the tears begin to roll down her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Quinn, sorry for it all. I really...." she sniffed, as her voice faltered and her eyes pleaded with him to come closer, to hold her tight like he had done before. The memory of those hugs, so fleeting and yet so profound, flashed into her brain and she so wanted one again.

"Life goes on," she ventured, but knew as she said it that fake stoicism really wouldn't cut it. Not now.

Her desperation was growing. It had seemed so easy in theory but she had forgotten to factor in the sheer stubbornness of the man. And now she was floundering, looking for a way to catch him, to make him listen, to win him back. Her mind fell on a plan. It wasn't honest or decent but she was at the bottom of the barrel of her hope and was scrapping away at the few remaining dregs.

"Franny's favourite story is Peter Rabbit, you know. She goes on about it endlessly."

The animation left him completely, he sat still, immobile, eyes distant and so cold. "You let me go," he said firmly. "I can't come back."

The sheer pain of loss welled up inside her then. For all her wanting to be calm, controlled, she could not tamp down the deep despair. She reverted to the safety of aggression, the habitual weapon, its hilt familiar and snug in her hand, attacking with no thought of the damage it would do to him or her. "You're here, aren't you? With that fucking woman, that fucking dwarf. Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look?" She scoffed and sniffed and spat.

He retracted, his hand leaving an indentation on her sleeve, the merest trace of his touch, of what might have been but never would be. His eyes were veiled, as the mask of apparent indifference descended on to his features. She knew it well, had seen him don it many a time when the pain of feeling became too hard. She had worn it herself. It was a way of protecting oneself that they had both learned young in their chosen profession.

And she knew in his reaction that she had lost him. He was closed up, buttoned down tight and any leeway he had been prepared to give her, and that was little, was lost.

"Shit!" She roared in frustration and suddenly became aware of all the curious stares from the mothers around her, all suddenly interested in the drama on their doorstep which may prove to be more intriguing than the day time soaps some of them spent their lives living vicariously.

"Sorry," she hissed, quieter. "I really wanted to talk to you, to tell you, but...."

His stare was granite hard, the emotionless refuge of the cold assassin he always would be, as he shook his head slightly. "You shouldn't have come."

She nodded. "I didn't come to hurt you, Quinn, believe me. It was a shock to see you and I reacted badly, I know. But you know me, I say things from the heart, my filters aren't always good and seeing you alive and mighty fine just blew them away. I'm sorry. Shit, I've said that enough for one day but I truly am."

He bit his lip, looked away, left her wondering if she was getting through at all. He had loved her from afar for years. Never told her, and she was stupid enough to think that now, now he had created a new life for himself from the tatters of his old, he would tell her.

Still, she had come to say something and she was no coward, she would say it.

She fumbled in her bag, came out with what she was looking for. His eyes had come back to regard her, curious but cold, as she put the book down on the table between them.

"When I was.... when I was tidying away your things, I came across this. I kept it, I don't know why..." Humourless laugh, grim as hell, again. "Should have put it in the trash, I guess but.... Anyway, it must be important to you so I thought you should have it." She gulped.

Why was breathing and talking at the same time so difficult?

Through moist eyes she looked down at the book, Great Expectations, battered and tattered, like the pair of them. Quinn was staring at it, face pale as milk, completely still, lifeless, save for a small muscle on his jaw, flexing. 

Carrie stood up. "I guess that's it then. You won't see me again. Thanks for the coffee." She bustled passed the kid in the pushchair as her vision watered completely, the world lurched nauseously and the strength in her legs all but failed.

She left four word,s and all her hope, hanging desperately on the air as she exited the coffee shop and was gone....

"I loved you too."


	5. Chapter 5

So, he woke up in a hospital bed. 

Again. 

The sensation was familiar: The hint of panic that can always be found lingering just below the surface of any ER room was palpable, enhanced by the smell of antiseptic, sour in his nostrils. There was a buzz of conversation beyond the plastic curtains that formed the border to his world and somewhere somebody was crying, soft sobs swollen with deep sorrow. A noisy trolley was wheeled by eclipsing all other sounds for a second.

It wasn't the first time and, though he didn't think he was making a habit of it, it was safe to say that he had been in this situation a damn sight more regularly than most people. Dusty hospital tents in the desert, clinically clean military hospitals in Germany, the Veterans dirty dumps in the US and now he had a good old NHS Accident and Emergency Department to add to his list.

Waking up in this way normally marked the end of something for him. This time was no different as the shattered shards of his memory melded back together again to form a coherent picture of what had happened. 

Sylvie was sitting beside his bed, holding his hand and on the face of it doing exactly what the devoted partner should be doing. But Quinn remembered the look in her eyes before he passed out, could see the shadow of it lingering darkly, there still, as his vision settled and her face came into focus. 

She had been scared, scared of him, of what he had done, of what he had the capacity to do.

He gulped, hoping that in shaking his head the memory would fade to a bad dream but it didn't, it remained clear and true and real and the only thing the movement brought, to accompany his growing sense of doom, was a nauseous thundering headache. 

He groaned.

"Davy?" Sylvie said, her voice edged by concern and fear, her hand tightening on his, as if that could make it better.

He looked at her then and their eyes met. She smiled but she withheld something, something precious, as if she feared for its safety, that he would break it. Something she had hitherto given him almost carelessly.

It had started off as such a fine day. The first truly warm one of the year, when the sun shone down from a cloudless sky and burnt away the last residue of winter. Comfortable and safe in each other's company, they had gone for a walk along the newly restored and suddenly fashionable canal. Its old rusty abandoned supermarket trollies, rotting dead seagulls and invading Japanese Knotweed replaced by sleek pathways, shiny coffee booths and young families, the canal positively glistened in the sunshine.

It felt good.

Balloons, pushchairs, sickly-sweet candy floss and laughter were all major players in the carnival atmosphere. As well as the human influences, even this deep into a bustling, choking capital city, wildlife was everywhere, returning as if awoken from a long winter sleep and eager to experience the pure thrill of living once more. 

Quinn remembered seeing a family of swans, the mother on the water with her fluffy cygnets and the father preening under a bridge. Something about the scene had spoken to him, had stopped him in his tracks. A longing, clutching deep at his soul, a rightness, a perfection that he wanted so much. Swans took lifelong partners; how could they manage to succeed at what he found impossible to do?

They had moved on as he pushed the disquiet away, swallowing it down into his bitter stomach bile. Ignoring it. Living with it as he always did.

Maybe this time it really was different.

The unexpected heat had sapped his strength, and he was feeling hot and bothered by the time they made it to Camden Market. It was a maelstrom of people, surging back and forth through the tight stalls like the ocean, with no care of the single entities that made up the seething mass. There were delicious smells from all over the world, dallying on the air, dancing around the nose and the taste buds, forcing the mouth to water and the stomach to growl in anticipation of gastronomic delights.

But Quinn couldn't settle. Too many people, too much thrusting and shoving. He was just flotsam borne with no say on the waves of the crowd. Out of control. People pushed him, pulled him this way and that and a dark anger began to grow. Frustration, that he could not move out of their way quick enough, he could not impose his own will on where he was going, that his valuable personal space was being constantly invaded and he feared he would lose Sylvie in the crush. The feeling of inadequacy, his long time personal companion, made an uninvited appearance.

Sharp pains sparked up his leg and he felt the rage building, deep down, a hot, volcanic force which he knew he wouldn't control. Desperately he looked for respite, saw the craft beer pub down a quieter street to his left, clutched hold of Sylvie and tried to make his way to the sanctuary.

The big guy, all dirty denim, black leather and hairy tattoos lurched in front of him, eluding the interesting, if not alluring, scent of engine oil and various lurid bodily secretions; a heady mix indeed. A mountainous barrier that cut off his retreat. Hemmed in and anxious, Quinn only meant to lightly push him out of the way but his muscles spasmed at just the wrong time and the push became a violent shove, throwing the man backwards to land with a surprisingly high-pitched and startled scream on his butt, hurt, shamed and more than a little annoyed.

To be fair, the guy probably hadn't wanted a fight, just a quiet afternoon, sweating and swearing with his mates, fermenting in the unexpected Sunday sun before he put away his piercings and tied back his hair and returned to his mundane, soul-destroying office job the next day. But, distended Macho pride severely dented, he really had no choice except to rise up, alcohol fuelled, a Godzilla released and angry. He threw himself at Quinn.

"You fucking spastic!" he spat.

The world disintegrated around Quinn. He was no longer in a warm, pleasant market on a sunny day. He was forensically focused and in mortal danger. He reacted as he had been trained, as he always would, with the sheer precision of a slick but brutal assassin. His body may not have been as good as it once was but he was still good enough. Quinn dug his good hand deep into the bushy beard, hoping not to find any wildlife or rotting food there, pulled his assailant forward using the guy's own momentum as he bent and smashed his head into the shaggy Neanderthal's face in a manner even the most self-respecting Glaswegian thug would have been mighty proud of. The lout fell back again, with another girly groan, this time with blood exploding in frothy foam from a deep cut on his forehead.

And that could have been the end of it, and all would not have been lost. 

Only tattooed man had his mates there with him too and they couldn't let this shaming stand. They all descended on Quinn, murderous payback in their eyes.

"Davy!" Sylvie screamed.

He turned, pushed her behind him and just at that moment their eyes met. It was then he saw the fear and the betrayal shining through her frightened tears. His fight reaction fully mobilised and anxious to burst forth, he ignored the heartfelt plea she sent him, awoke his warrior and waded into battle.

It didn't last long. 

With no element of surprise, a broken body and vastly outnumbered, although he gave a good account of himself, Quinn was crushed by the mob which rolled over him and then, as sirens cut through the warm air like rapiers through silk, left him, bloody, on the floor.

A small crowd gathered to watch the fun but then moved on as soon as it was done. Sylvie knelt beside him, biting back her tears as they waited for the ambulance. Quinn blacked out and had not regained consciousness until much later in the A and E of the local hospital.

He was discharged soon afterwards, left eye black and swelling, jaw cracking painfully every time he opened his mouth and the knuckles of his right hand grazed where they had landed a few good punches into soft bellies or fragile faces. His head hurt and his major organs felt like they had been through a mincer but it was the pain in his mind, the empty feeling in his soul, that the plastic bottle of painkillers Sylvie clutched tightly to her chest, had no hope of treating.

They took a cab back to his flat. Sylvie was quiet, more subdued than he had ever seen her. That was par for the course. He knew how this went and, sure enough, after she had settled him on the couch, plied him with aforementioned painkillers and a much more welcome whisky, she gave him that serious pitiful look he had seen on so many women's faces.

He knew what was coming.

"Davy, we have to talk."

No shit.

Not trusting his voice, he nodded for her to go on.

She drew in a lot of air, probably too much for her petite lungs and looked at him with disappointed, sad eyes. "I've been thinking about this a lot. Not just today, although today has made it...." She stopped, stood up, all nervous energy looking for a place to chill.

This wasn't new for him. He had heard it all before. Knew where it was going. Had already begun to erect the walls to hide behind, to negate the coming pain. He had no energy or will to fight it, the damage was already done.

She tried again. "Sometimes it's like you're here in body but not really present. Like you have a heavy burden weighing you down that you just can't shift. I thought I could help you carry the weight and I've tried but I've slowly come to the conclusion that I don't think I can. I think there's something you need to do alone that I can't help you with."

Tears rolled down her puffy cheeks. She looked like the one that had been beaten up. Why did they make it so hard for themselves, he thought. Why don't they just tell me to fuck off?

But Sylvie was an empathetic, caring soul. She tried a new tactic. "When I was a little girl, my favourite old aunt gave me a family heirloom. A musical box that dated back many generations in my family. It was really precious. And I loved it best of anything else in the world. Somehow, I'll never know for sure but I suspect my brother overwound it, it got broken. I cried my heart out. My dad took it literally everywhere but nobody could mend it. I would have done anything to fix it, to get it back the way it should have been. It was the worse lesson of my life to find that actually, however hard I prayed, there was nothing I could do. I had to accept that, through no fault of my own, I could not do anything, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fix it."

Oh, this was new, he'd never been compared to a fucking music box before.

She stopped, crying unashamedly. Dispassionately; it had to be so or he would lose it, he wondered if the tears were for him or the broken music box of her childhood. She obviously expected him to say something. 

Quinn really had nothing to say. He had no defence. So he sat like a sullen, guilty schoolboy and waited for the headmaster's blow.

She sat down beside him again. "I've been pretending that having half of you is good enough. Ignoring the name you moan in the height of your passion...."

Fuck!

He stiffened at that. No one had ever accused him of that before but he knew instantly whose name he must have moaned and another dollop of guilt was piled on the stinking pile he was already drowning in.

".... Pretending that I can live with it because having only half of you is still so much better than anyone I have had before. You are a lovely man and you need to believe that, Davy. But see it's not fair to you and it's not fair to me, we both deserve more than second best."

He wanted this over. The connection between them was irrevocably cut. No point in dragging it out, giving him useless compliments that neither of them really believed. He was not a lovely man and never would be.

Bless Sylvie, she was still battling on, trying to justify what was already blindingly obvious, no need for further justification. "You scared me last night I won't deny it. There is something in you dark and deadly that you try so very hard to subdue but I saw it last night and I know I am not the person to tame that beast. I can't give you what you need, can't even begin to understand what that help would be."

"I think you should gggggo." His voice deep and emotionless, got stuck on the last word as he twitched. Already his walls had gone up. All that was needed was to extricate himself from this mess.

She looked at him, shocked. "Go?"

He nodded and that sent a whole new spasm of pain marauding across his forehead to perch eye-wateringly between his eyes.

"You don't mean that. You're injured. I need to look after you." She said all the right words but he could detect the spark of relief in her eyes as she sensed an escape from this mad man.

"I'm good," he said. "Just need to get some sleep." He stood up creakily and ushered her towards the door. "Really."

"Davy, I don't think...."

He wanted her gone. Couldn't stand the judgement he saw in her eyes. The pity he saw there. Couldn't stand to be with her now the illusion was shattered, his mask had been torn away and his secret ugliness revealed. It had been good but it was all fucking lost now. She would see eventually that he was no good for her.

At the door, she tried again but he gently and firmly pushed her away. This was his goodbye and if she didn't know it yet she would soon enough when he didn't return her calls and his flat was empty next time she came around, desperate to see him. 

Better this way before his fatal flaw really hurt her. Before he got her killed.

The bang of the door was an utter relief.

He stumbled to the kitchen, refilled his glass and then flopped on to the sofa once more as his self-critical dial turned up to the maximum. Self-loathing, bitter and biting, there was nothing here that he hadn't already crucified himself on many times before. Nothing new. It was just further extenuated by the fact he had done it again. Hurt another innocent.

It was gonna be a long night. Retrospection, even with whisky, really sucked.

He had been summoned to it, claimed by the darkness at such a young age he had never truly known life without its call. He did not remember his parents, nor any family. His childhood had been characterised by an uncontrollable feeling of falling, of slipping through every safety net that society, with lacklustre inattention, provided to keep him safe; bullying, violence, sex, drugs, he had flirted with them all, betrayed and left to suffer by a care system that didn't care. 

Who would have thought that killing people would liberate him from such a world? In truth, it was the darkness that had really saved him and he had accepted it. He had done terrible things, deluded himself it was because he believed in a greater good, and indeed that infinitesimal seed of hope deep inside still clung on tight, refusing to die. But his rational side knew, he knew he would not get away with doing what he had done without paying a heavy price for such evil.

Happiness had never been his. He was not made for house and home, family and friends. He was born to live in the shadows and he accepted this fate, much of the time. But once in a while that seed would dare to germinate in his heart and he would believe in a different possibility. The cycle would begin again soon enough, then he would fuck up and dash away all hope, immersing himself back into his profession, spiralling deeper into darkness.

But for the last four months, as the bitter winter days had grown short so that it was dark by four pm, and then lengthened again, meagre snows dusted the city streets and then the rejuvenated spring sun leapt into the sky to herald the turning of the season, the seed of hope had grown in him. A normal life, of pubs and shows, of evenings by the log burning stove, long walks and fun with a lady who had come to mean so very much to him. He felt cherished, loved, in a way he never had been before. Sylvie had opened up a part of him he had hoped had existed but never really believed could be there. 

But that lack of belief, lack of faith in himself, festered at a deeper level of his consciousness. So, he could appear to the world happy and content, and in a way, he was, but the doubt in him ran deep. A numbing biting fear that such joy could not last and the even more basic acceptance that he should not expect it to, he did not deserve it; that it would all fragment to nothing when his dreadful secret was revealed. His time was borrowed, not his, never his for keeps, stolen from another who had earned such happiness.

And sure enough, like a self-fulfilling prophecy, his fear had become sad reality. He had shown Sylvie he was not worthy of her, shown the world he was only ever good enough to dwell in the darkness. The light of goodness would not shine on him, joy was never his, because he was deficient, not normal, infected by the virus of violence so deep he would never be cured.

Fuck it all!

He had been stupid to even dare to hope that it could be different this time. It was bound to fail, just like all of his previous attempts to escape - Julia and Astrid and Edie. He was doomed to repeat the same mistakes again and again and again. 

As the night wore on and the whisky bottle emptied, his brain, addled by the strong alcohol, sought no further explanation but his own weakness as the angry questions welled up inside him. Why did it always end this way? Why did he ever try to change it? Open himself up to the failure? The definition of madness to keep repeating the same behaviour and get the same result. Why couldn't he learn that he was better off without any of it? 

Alone, that was what he deserved, that was the pathetic creature he was.

There was just the barest trace of the lovely day left in the sky when he found the energy to stand up and lurch towards the front door, his winter coat, forsaken on this warm day hanging on the hook. He reached deep into the pocket, pulled out the book that had lain there throughout the winter. Ever since she had left him in Antz and he had thought it was really over.

It wasn't. He saw that now. He had kept the book close, his symbol of hope, touched it even, his hand loitering along its smooth spine, letting it linger like the last bloom of summer, hoping for a reprieve, that he knew would never come. 

With a strangled growl of utter despair, he stumbled past the sofa, stood in front of the fiery log burner that Sylvie had fussed about lighting earlier. 

He was sinking even lower than ever before, descending at a frightful speed into the blackness and he hit rock bottom with a dull thud, his desolation complete.

He didn't deserve any of them. He hurt them all. Better to give it all away, all of it! Give up everything.

He threw the book into the flames. 

As he did so one picture fell out. 

He stopped, picked it up, his stomach lurched at the scene. He had never seen it before although he remembered vividly when it had been taken. In New York City, the last time he had dared to dream, before it had all gone to shit. His own face, pale but almost smiling stared back at him. And beside him, Franny, red hair glowing, mischievous grin beaming like the sun on a chill day. He remembered she had just been teasing him with a cookie and Carrie, laughing, had rushed to get her phone to take the shot.

Deep inside he felt the seed of hope quiver. He ignored it bitterly and threw the photo on top of the now blackened ashes of what had once been his precious book. Dry eyed, feeling nothing, he watched the photo curl and begin to lose form at its edges as the flames edged closer to claim it. 

He needed to burn it all. 

To let go of it all.

Give up and let the darkness triumph.

But....

Peter Quinn was made of stern stuff, forged in the flame of endurance, fashioned through brutal experience and powered to do good. Even if he refused to believe it of himself, in his darkest despair, the stoic seed of hope still lived in his soul. When beaten down, he would always find a way to bounce back, to simply endure. Even now the seed was budding once more in his chest. The inner spirit, his lifeblood, would not be denied as the memories of NYC came back. It had only been for a couple of days, and those shrouded in his own paranoia but he had felt something worthwhile there. Franny had looked at him with innocent eyes that never judged him wanting, even when he was throttling an ESU officer and holding her hostage. She had believed him when he had said he would keep her safe.

Fuck, her favourite story was Peter Rabbit…. still!

And her mother, the indomitable Carrie Mathison. She had looked at him with pity, true, but that was only because of the changes in him, of what he couldn't do, not what he still could. Christ, she had watched him beat a man to death and barely flinched. She understood him like no other, had given up her life, taken him in in NYC when she could have just walked away. He owed her, he saw it clearly. 

He owed them both.

She had read his letter, knew how he had felt about her and her last comment, that he had chosen to ignore but he had heard, as she ducked out of the coffee shop last fall had been, "I loved you, too."

Back at the cabin on the lake, Dar Adal had told him he was on his last chance. If that was true, then he wanted to see both Carrie and Franny again. The need was suddenly so strong it ripped through him.

He gulped, reached into the flames, ignored the burning of his flesh, the smell of charring meat and rescued the photo just as the fire licked around the edges of the little girl's face. 

He stared at the picture for a long time. 

Rising from the barren pit of despair, suddenly, through the power of memory and one little girl, the seed inside him was a fucking fully formed tree in full blossom.

He wasn't screwing around this time. All of the pretending and performing - the pathetic coping mechanisms that he had developed throughout his life to protect himself from feeling inadequate and getting hurt, the walls he had built, he saw now did not work. They left him only more miserable. He needed to feel worthy of love and belonging, Sylvie had shown him he could do that.

Now he needed to do it with the right person. 

He came to a decision. It was time to show up and be seen. One last roll of the dice. One more time. He owed her that. He would find her again. Apologise and ask her one more time. Maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't end so badly this time.

And, if it didn't work, if he went down, crashed and burned, at least he was going down in flames....


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to @ellietonkinn who discovered the beautiful town of Fallen Crest and of course to @elviiraros and @SenseMisapplied for their increasingly outrageous demands!

Fallen Crest, Vermont, had at the time of its inception, epitomised the old adage that the only exciting thing coming from it was the road out. Sited deep in the Green Mountains, it gave off the feel that the early pioneers had fought their way there through many challenges only to see the biggest mountain in the area towering majestically in front of them. At that point, they threw down their belongings, said 'Fuck that,' and the sleepy little town with not much going on, was born. 

And it stayed that way until the leisure industry came into being during the last decades of the twentieth century. Then a wily old businessman saw the opportunity, as resorts were springing up all around, to make some real money. The area averaged 250 inches of natural snow each winter. That, coupled with a snowmaking system that the businessman and a couple of his friends invested in allowed Fallen Crest to offer what was often the longest skiing season in eastern North America, which usually lasted from late October to late May.

Not only that, but for the summer months Fallen Crest had 45 miles of hiking and mountain biking trails, an 18-hole golf course and the crystal blue waters of Lake Morlick, to play on. It also boosted lift accessed mountain biking with technical trail features, jumps, and other obstacles. The new Mayor had big plans to add zip lines and a mountain coaster.

So, Fallen Crest prospered, though it never tried to compete with the bigger, flashier resorts out west, it had a good mix of young families, stressed out businessmen and tree huggers visit it annually. All with different objectives, but all living harmoniously within its borders for the week or so they were there. A goodwill bubble covered the friendly little town and the evils of the outside world, corrupt politicians, raving mad conspiracy theorists and cynical imprisoned CIA manipulators, could not penetrate.

And it was to Fallen Crest that Carrie Mathison retreated after she made a life-changing decision following a conversation with a crippled man in a coffee house called Antz in London. She decided to give it all up, her former life, her career, the man who could have been her soulmate but through the vagaries of fate had rejected her, any other man, in fact everything, to focus on one thing and one thing only; her daughter Franny. 

She moved into a cosy house, complete with three holiday cabins for rent nearby, on the lake, nestling in the roots of the mountains. Pretty, lonesome and goddamn hard work. She knew others were expecting her to fail. The President of the United States, no less, had been forced to set her up in this endeavour. Carrie remembered the mad woman's eyes, as she put forward her proposal; give me a business and you'll never hear from me again.

"That's blackmail," Elizabeth Keane had scoffed.

Carrie held her ground. "I call it negotiation. It's that or I go straight to the New York Times with my story. Your call."

The President had shaken her head, dismissively. "You won't last five minutes."

"We'll see."

And so Carrie got what she asked for, her very own business by the lake. And, with the premises paid for, all she had to do was attract enough guests to cover her living expenses and get Franny back.

Her neighbours came to the rescue on both counts.

Victoria and Jasmine, were both refugees from the Boston legal profession that had paid big bucks and given them no satisfaction whatsoever, particularly when their heads hit the glass ceiling and their careers stagnated alarmingly. 

Undeterred, they gave it all up, reverting to Earth mother mode. They were not Bohemians, but pretty close and certainly powered by free spirit. They lived on the next plot around the lake, a beautiful cabin with the fog of incense hanging on the air, statuesque Buddhas gazing on benignly, wind chimes ringing softly on the light breeze and weird vegetables forever boiling on the stove. Vicky had retrained as a social worker, the only one in town, while Jasmine ran their own guest house business. Both were eager to make friends and help their newly arrived sister in her attempt to escape her less than satisfactory past. 

Just the sort of luck and support Carrie had been missing in her life so far.

Vicky contacted New York City Child Services. Franny, still in a foster home, began weekend visits immediately and in February it was agreed she should come to live with her mother permanently. 

Jasmine had a diary full of vacationers and where she was overbooked and sometimes even when she wasn't, she sent them on to Carrie's cabins. 

So that, by the time their first winter was done, everything was falling into place nicely.

On an infrequent night off in early April, deep, velvet sky with a thousand stars twinkling above, when the snows had finally begun to melt and the skiers began to consider putting away their skis for the summer, Carrie was round at Vicky's. Franny was playing down by the lake with their two boys, Shane and Finn and their dogs. The boys were a couple of years older than the red headed firebrand but seemed to like being bossed around by her and positively fawned over her as the little sister they never had. 

The ladies were sitting on the porch next to the not very effective heater that was chugging away determinedly nevertheless, cuddled up in homely blankets and drinking gin to keep the growing cold off as the frost settled around them.

"Well, you survived your first Fallen Crest winter," Jasmine said, raising a glass in salute. She was a sturdy woman with her bronzed complexion darkened by long hours spent out in the fresh mountain air. Her hair, normally a wild fuzzy mess, was today scrapped back into an austere bun which made her sincerely deep brown eyes suddenly the centre of attention in her face.

"Not quite, I only got here in December, remember, Jas," Carrie replied.

"Near enough. Looks to me like you've settled right in. Feels like you've been here always."

"Thanks to you guys. You have made me so welcome. And, if you mean have I accepted that my hair will always smell of frying bacon, that my muscles are bulging Mr Universe size because of chopping wood, and I am going to spend the rest of my life tripping over a damp, smelly goofy dog, then I guess I have."

"Oh, Ganser is a lovely mutt," Vicky said as she returned with potato chips. She was smaller and less robust, her finely chiselled features more fragile, like bone china and her azure blue eyes deep, intelligent pools in her pretty but lived-in face.

"For lovely, read stupid," Carrie scoffed. "He is forever in that lake even when its freezing and then coming out saturated, straight on to the couch. Dirty paw prints everywhere. I swear he'll be the death of me!"

"He's just what Franny needs," Jasmine said. "A friend to love."

Franny had persuaded her mom to take her to the local pound and fallen in love immediately with the floppy eared, huge, slobbering mongrel called Ganser. Carrie hadn't had the heart to refuse her. So now the big, dumb animal was a fixture to fall over in the cramped cabin, and an immovable weight snoring loudly on the bed they shared at night. Still, if Carrie was honest, she would have accepted she was coming to like, if not love, the stupid beast. If only wet dog didn't smell so vile.

As if on cue, there was a splash and raucous laughter from the lake. Carrie snorted, peering through the gathering gloom to check everyone was all right, she relaxed and sat back. "Stupid hound is in there again," she muttered pulling her blanket back around her shoulders.

Vicky topped up the gin, the numerous bracelets that adorned each wrist, tinkling softly as she moved. "So, you know there's something you can do about the muscles," she ventured.

"Muscles?"

"Log chopping."

Carrie smiled and flexed her biceps proudly. "What?"

"Get a man in," Vicky suggested.

"Or a woman," Jasmine added.

Carrie rolled her eyes. "Why?"

"A handyman."

"Or woman."

Vicky beamed. "Yes, a handy-person, let’s be PC about this."

Carrie shook her head. "We're quite happy on our own." But there was something in the way her head moved that undermined her words. A sadness that was as obvious as the evening frost coming down, fingering over everything like an overzealous lover.

"But are you?" Vicky pushed. "When was the last time...?"

"Last time?" Carrie felt herself blush. She took a long gulp of her gin. "I've given up men. They hurt too much."

"You could put an ad in the paper," Vicky continued regardless.

"I was thinking more of Tinder," Jasmine said.

"In Fallen Crest?" Vicky was sceptical.

Jasmine nodded. "You're right. You don't want a nerdy weakling anyway, do you, Car? We need somebody with big muscles. I'm thinking a real handy man. Not somebody who spends his time behind a desk, spewing out emails all day." As she spoke, she wriggled her eyebrows suggestively.

"We do?" Carrie said obviously still not sure but coming around to the suggestion. She had spent much of the morning chopping wood and her back was real sore plus there were blisters the size of plums, red and angry on her hands. "I thought this 'handyman' was for me?"

"Yeah, but it'll improve the view from here too," Jasmine replied, ever the strategist revealing her real plans with a giggle. "I can use pictures of him cutting wood, naked to the chest, sweat running over all the right bits for my PR, too."

Vicky laughed and reached over to squeeze Jasmine's hand lovingly. "At least you know we may look, but we won't touch! So, any other requirements?"

Carrie pouted. "No red heads and no veterans."

Vicky and Jasmine exchanged knowing looks but knew better than to ask anything. The colouring of Carrie's daughter was enough to make them aware that there was a painful story there.

So, it was decided and they spent the rest of the night finishing the gin, giggling uproariously and drafting a suitably irreverent advert until the kids came back demanding supper and it was time to take Franny and Ganser to bed.

Carrie was amazed by her own reaction to this silly venture. Incredibly, she was ludicrously excited by the thought of having someone come to stay and it wasn't just because she would get out of doing the log chopping. Although Franny was a talkative and happy little girl, a miracle in itself, after she had put her to bed and there was only the dog to talk to, Carrie had felt incredibly lonely during those long winter nights. Ganser was not big in the brains department and anyway he was just a dog. 

Trying to tamp down her excitement, Carrie wasn't fooling herself that this was going to be some mega love affair. She just wanted a companion, someone to talk to, to laugh with, another adult to swap stories and dreams. Was that too much to ask for?

So, when there were no replies to the advert she got a little down but resorted to telling herself she really didn't need anybody else. Her and Franny could do just fine. Vicky and Jasmine tried to placate her, both feeling guilty since it had been their idea in the first place. But Carrie smiled bravely and pushed her disappointment away, determining to just get on with things.

The phone call came out of the blue on a sunny morning just after Easter some two weeks after the advert. The voice on the other end of the phone was a man's, youngish, sort of familiar, definitely attractive with a soft lilting Scottish accent. Carrie couldn't control the skip of her heart when he said his name was Jamie McGregor and he was interested in the job. Did it come with its own private room like a basement? He was most insistent on that, asking the question a number of times. Carrie assured him it did and arranged for him to come around the following day for a chat. 

The next morning, she tripped up over Ganser, bashed her shin painfully on the side of the table, burnt the bacon and swore at Franny as she packed her off to school with Jasmine who, eyebrows waggling, wished her all the luck with her enterprise. Franny had a swear box going, to fund a trip to Disneyland and so didn't mind a bit; the way it was filling up, she would be going to Florida a lot sooner than she had planned. 

Then with hours to spare before Mr McGregor arrived Carrie found herself suddenly nervous, her stomach churning in a way that reminded her of her first date. Was she really this out of practice? Trying not to fantasise about what he would look like, crushing the hope that he was going to be tremendously hot and unattached, she set about sweeping the room, dusting, throwing out a jar of old dead flowers and replacing it with fresher ones. Then, the thrill of expectation still thrumming through her veins, she went through to the bathroom, brushed the pine needles, which always seemed to be there, from her hair and found herself applying lipstick for the first time in ages, her hand trembling worryingly.

The loud, purposeful knock at the door sent a further thrill of anticipation through her. Biting down her expectation, heart beating like a drum, she gave herself one last look in the mirror, decided it would have to do and made her way to the door. She opened it with a flourish and was stopped dead in her tracks, as she recognised the figure standing patiently on her porch.

Her shock was so intense, she lost all colour and simply stared. It was like outside the church after her father's funeral as the waves of both sheer relief and disbelief washed through her, except this time he was wearing faded jeans, a quite hideous checked shirt the colours of which must have been selected by a colour-blind idiot, thankfully it was mostly covered by a stylish black leather jacket, a battered face, bandaged hand and a broad confident smile. 

This time she didn't run to him but simply rolled her eyes and slouched against the door jamb, expectantly.

"Hey." Was all he said.

"Hey, yourself." She took a deep breath, swallowing back the surprise, willing her voice to stay calm. 

"A lakeside cabin, Carrie, really?" he said nonchalantly.

She ignored the barb, went for her own instead. "Been brawling again? Really Quinn, I must admit it was a shock last time I saw you when you didn't have a black eye. Anyway, I'm kinda busy, right now, got an appointment...."

If she had been spooked at his appearance, his next words just turned up the feeling to the top of the dial. "I came to apologise," he said.

"Well, this is new," she snorted, holding on to her cool as it threatened to take flight into the trees. "Can you make it snappy cos I'm expecting somebody."

"You said," he replied, crossing his arms and giving off the vibe of having absolutely no intention of leaving whatsoever. He looked around. "Can't see anyone else. Maybe you've been stood up."

"I don't think so. This isn't a fucking date. It's a job interview."

"A job interview?" He rolled his eyes. "Are you after gainful employment at last, Carrie? CIA finally throw you out?"

"Not me, you idiot, I have a job to offer; handyman."

"Handyman?" he repeated knowingly.

"Fuck you, Quinn. What do you care, really?"

"How's Franny? Still loving Peter Rabbit?"

"What? What does that have to do with anything?"

He shrugged, unconcerned and one hundred per cent annoying. "I kinda like to see her while I'm here."

"She's at school and then she has soccer practise so I guess that's not gonna be possible!" Carrie couldn't control the proud smile that creased her lips in denying him even if she wasn't being completely honest. Franny was due back in little under an hour but she didn't want to tell him that. How dare he just waltz back into her life and expect a fucking party? "Anyway, I'm still waiting for this apology."

Quinn nodded, looked away chewing his lip and then taking a deep breath, he looked back at her. "I'm sorry."

"That's it?" she scoffed. "You came all this way from your little Aussie fuck friend in London to say that? Please!" She made a point of looking impatiently at her watch, snorted impatiently.

Quinn smirked. "I think he's blown you out."

"Well, you would know the fucking signs."

"What's the job anyway?"

"I told you already, handyman. I got wood to chop, fences to repair, a yard to tidy.... Shit, why am I even telling you this?"

"Does a private room, like a basement or something, come with the job?"

Carrie's eyes narrowed and she stared at him coldly. His voice had changed from the familiar deep Eastern seaboard drawl to a softer Scottish burr. One she had heard on the phone recently....

"Fuck you!" she spat and turned to slam the door but he was quicker and got a foot to it to hold it open. 

"Jamie McGregor, star handyman at your service!" he beamed. "You're slipping, Carrie, I gave you so many hints and you saw none of them."

"I should have fucking known. What do you want?"

"A job."

She snorted again. "London didn't work out for you?"

"It's not where I want to be." He moved nearer, dimples fading in earnest.

"And here is?" She looked away, sniffing, as tears suddenly began to pool at the corners of her eyes. What the fuck was wrong with her? Why did this hurt so much?

"Maybe," he muttered as he stepped back, removed his foot from the door, his eyebrows raising to ask a question she knew he would never speak.

She felt it then, the uncertainty, the wobble of standing on the very edge of a terrific yawning chasm. The cynical old woman in her told her to step back from the edge, to shut the door, slam it in his smug face but the little girl in her, so recently reawakened by spending time with her daughter and seeing the world through innocent five year old eyes fuelled by hope, begged her to take the plunge. Carrie tottered on the edge for a moment that lasted a lifetime and he stood motionless, for the first time ever, patiently waiting for her.

She sensed this was not the man she had so recently known, not the battered veteran drowning, being pulled under by the raging current of his own PTSD. He was still damaged true, his left arm stiff at his side and his words slow but there was something different about him, the way he carried himself, that took her mind back to the very first time they had met. There was a confidence, a swagger, in his sassy stare, his stupid ruse. She realised then, just how much she had missed this guy and her heart opened up for him as the little girl inside giggled in hysterical, triumphant laughter. Carrie took a deep breath and threw herself into the chasm, hoping he would be there to catch her as she fell, her safety net. 

She stepped forward toward him.

Their bodies touched, interlocking, a perfect fit, as he enveloped her in his embrace. She was trembling and she knew he was close enough to feel it. He cautiously slid his hand up and around her shoulders, looked down into her face. She had the urge to pull away but something stopped her. After all the years, and everything that had happened between, the look on his face once again transported her back to the evening of her father's funeral, the hazy memory that had become a fantastic dream to her, when they had gotten so close only to miss each other spectacularly.

She held his gaze, knowing the question his perfect blue eyes were asking was still the same and she leaned forward slightly. Their lips met in a slow, tender kiss. Carrie gave a little moan as her body turned to combustible liquid and fire suddenly blazed within her and everything else was forgotten. Years of abstinence, of ignoring what they each felt, burnt away in the white hot heat of the kiss.

Quinn’s less able arm slipped around to support her neck and his kiss deepened, his mouth staying locked on hers until she had to pull away and gasp for air. As she did, Quinn licked her lips and moved down to kiss her neck, slowly working his way down as his other hand, bandage tickling, slipped inside the blouse she wore to cup her breasts, using his thumb to brush against her nipples. Carrie gasped and jerked away but his hand followed, continuing to caress the tender flesh until the tiny buds were hard and tingling and Carrie was unconsciously pressing against him. 

She almost lost herself entirely but managed to hang on to her quickly retreating decorum just long enough to mutter, "Quinn, the neighbours!"

Then he was pushing her back into the hallway until she hit the wall, disturbing the book shelf, books crashed to the floor, a candle stick fell and shattered as she knocked into it. They didn't care, his lips were back on hers and this kiss continued forever, fuelled by years of pent up passion, emotional misunderstanding and dejected loss.

He pulled away finally and she felt the loss immediately, searing heat fading to ice in a second.

His eyes never leaving hers, with his one animated hand, he loosened her clothing, pulled it from her body in slow, insistent movements and she did not resist but let him continue until she stood before him naked and unashamed, her body glowing in the spring sunlight that arced in through the attic window above. A few silvery marks along the skin of her belly showed where she had carried her only child years ago but her body was still firm, her breasts with their peaked nipples rising gently with each breath and Quinn smiled down at her. 

“You are beautiful,” he whispered, voice husky with desire."I want to carry you to bed," he said, apologetically looking down at his left arm. "I want to lay you down on a bed of roses."

"Fuck, Quinn, I never had you down as a romantic."

"I'm full of surprises, you'll see." 

Leaving her clothes abandoned in the hallway they made their way to her bedroom. Feeling like that young girl on her first date, Carrie lay on the bed expectantly, a flutter of butterflies taking flight in her stomach. He kissed her slowly and thoroughly from head to toe, his lips moving leisurely as his hand caressed her body. 

Carrie's foggy consciousness vaguely noted he was a damn good kisser but her hindbrain was working on pure instinct, too lost to consider the implications of this moment. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the rapturous sensations that were bombarding her. Quinn’s warm mouth and tongue traced from her neck to her breasts, taking time out to suckle softly, causing Carrie to gasp with pleasure as his lips and tongue teased across her nipples, sending little jolts across her body. After that he moved down to lick sensuously at her navel and along her legs while his hand roamed across her and she reached out, seeking him, her fingers tracing along his back and shoulders. She gave a little shriek when her toes were licked, the rough stubble of his chin tickling like a cat's tongue and then her body tensed as the hot mouth began to trace up the inside of her legs. 

Carrie's hands reached for Quinn’s head, her fingers winding frantically through his short spiky hair and toying with his shirt collar as she tried to press his face ever closer, her whole body seemed swollen and pulsing with need and desire. Quinn shifted his position and then his hand was rubbing across her nipples, pinching and teasing, as he dragged his tongue along her most private parts.

The fire inside her was leaping now, flaring and burning until she couldn’t see, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. She had been reduced to making tiny cries of bliss as Quinn's knowledgeable tongue carried her to a place she had not known existed. She could feel her muscles tightening as he licked and sucked and her hands continued to run through his hair as he squeezed and rolled her nipples between his fingers while never letting up with his tongue, until finally Carrie felt it. 

It was an explosion, deep within, that shattered her soul and sent waves of delight rippling through her, causing her body to shudder and buck and shake uncontrollably as it crashed on through. She gave a long, wrenching groan as she came, feeling her muscles clamping tightly, the warmth flooded across her and then easing to twitches and jerks as the little aftershocks followed. 

Dizzy and disoriented, she gazed down at him through half-closed eyes. He looked up at her and grinned, almost boyish but for the swagger of satisfaction in his smile. Then he crawled up the bed to lay beside her. She snuggled into him, his skin was soft and smooth and his big hands encased her so she felt safer than she ever had. 

Neither of them moved for a long time, both bathed in the delicious, warm afterglow.

But nothing lasts, all things must change, and Carrie was determined to take the initiative. He would not play her like he had done earlier. "Fuck, I'm not calling you David Exley or Jamie McGregor," she said finally. "You will always be Quinn to me.”

“Makes sense,” he replied casually composed.

“And that fucking shirt has to go."

"Lumberjack chic," he responded. Then, ignoring her sharp, scoffing intake of breath, he propped himself up on his elbow, his fingers gently circling her nipple in gentle strokes, re-igniting immediately the embers that glowed deep inside her. He looked at her, gaze assured and continued, "That was quite an interview. Did I get the job?"

Carrie lay back letting him play. "I'm not sure," she teased. "I think maybe I need to do some further investigation. I mean I suspect you have some further talents to show me."

"Oh, I do, I promise you."

Just then the door bagged downstairs. 

"Mama! Mama!" Franny's shrill voice ascended the stairs, to be followed by Jasmine's saying, "She'll be here somewhere...."

Carrie sat bolt upright. "Shit! What time is it? Fuck, where are my clothes?"

"I think you left them in the hallway," Quinn smirked, lazily wiping a hand through his hair, to tidy it as best he could. It was a superfluous gesture, he looked exceedingly hot in a gratified, ‘just made my woman happy’ sort of way, whatever he did.

She jumped out of bed, wrestling with an oversized tee shirt. "Coming, honey!" she called, pulling on a pair of jeans she had found on the dresser. "Just stay downstairs...."

The bedroom door burst open and a red headed hurricane entered at top speed. "Mom, look at my picture!" Franny stopped, her painting held up in her chubby hands but forgotten, as she cocked her head when she perceived the man on the bed in front of her.

Carrie grabbed hold of her to halt her forward movement and tried to get between her and Quinn to block her line of a sight. "Hey, sweetheart," she said.

Jasmine's head peeped around the door. "Is everything all right, Car?" she asked, her eyes widening as she took in the scene. "Oh my god!" she breathed as Quinn, looking cheekily shameless and unabashed by the whole escapade, flashed his best smile. "Well, look at you! Carrie you dark horse!" Her laugh had the joyful tinkle of a mountain steam. "I love your interview technique!" She pulled herself together. "Franny, how about you come back to mine? Your mom obviously isn't finished with Mr McGregor yet and besides, I think the boys need some help with the interior design of the tree house."

"Thanks," Carrie mouthed over Franny's head as they ushered the little girl out, trying to ignore the blush that was blooming her cheeks, nervously pushing her hair behind her ears when she got a glance of how ravaged she looked in the dressing table mirror. 

Jasmine beamed lecherously. "Oh, believe me the pleasure is all yours, Carrie!" she winked. "Pleased to meet you, Mr McGregor," she tossed the greeting mischievously towards Quinn. "I hope to see more of you later."

Quinn's smile widened as he tilted his head in acknowledgement. "I hope so too," he replied conspiratorially.

As they descended the stairs again, boots clomping on the hard wood, Carrie distinctly heard her daughter say, "But I know him, that's not Farmer McGregor at all, that's Peter, Peter Rabbit!"


	7. Chapter 7

Life has a way of kicking you in the balls, hard.

Peter Quinn knew that, knew that well.... his balls had been bruised many times but the final kick he never saw coming. The one that took the beautiful world he had painstakingly managed to build to cover over the foundations of the suffering and despair, so unbelievably tragic they appeared to have been written by a talentless scriptwriter on a hopeless TV show, that had coloured his earlier life. He never saw the final kick that took his happiness and brutally razed it to the ground. The kick that ripped apart his coveted happy ending so catastrophically.

He should have known.

He should have seen it coming. 

It was his fault; he still hadn't suffered enough for the evil he had done. 

He never would.

He deserved it.

But barrel bombs out of a clear blue sky always seem worse, somehow.... 

For over two years he had lived in hope that his debt was paid. Fallen Crest kept him away from the horror, away from the memory, away from his guilt, safe in its caressing, nurturing bubble where life was cherished and people cared. He lived and loved, laughed and cried, had magnificent arguments where the house shook with rage and even more glorious sex when the whole world quaked for altogether better reasons. 

Hard work meant that the business prospered, Quinn improved bodily with all the physical graft he did, and mentally because he finally began to realise that he was cherished. He could love and be loved. 

Franny, a bright and cheery girl, a free spirit born to soar above the chains of her own beginnings, did well at school in an unconventional way. One highlight was when she burnt the chemistry laboratory down apparently experimenting with explosives. Carrie had been horror-struck. Quinn shook his head and denied all responsibility but afterwards he took Franny out to the shed and showed her the right way to do it. After that, on many a night, strange rumblings, awful smells and big bangs came from the outhouse, along with uproarious laughter and Franny came top of the class in chemistry. She also got her trip to Florida, two in fact, because her swear jar was constantly refilled.

As well as bomb-making, he taught her to shoot, although because of her deep love of all living things and desire to be a vet, she turned out to be a crack shot at empty cans, never any animal. In the summer, they spent hours messing about on the lake in canoes. Winter saw them up the mountain, although how Quinn managed to ski with his still damaged left side was a miracle, but he did, with style. He and Franny were real racers and often had to wait for Carrie's more sedate style as she picked her way slowly down the slope.

The best moment of Quinn's life was one night when, as they watched a beautiful sunset over Lake Morlick, lines of vermillion cloud stretching out in ribbons to fill the darkening sky above them, Franny, snuggling up close to him, asked if he would be her real dad. Carrie was consulted, papers were drawn up and the legalities were completed, but none of that mattered to Quinn, Franny had asked for it, that was enough for him. At last he had what he had craved his whole life.

They were a family.

It was wonderful.

But one day in December it all came crashing down. One day in December the sun went dark, and winter broke the promise that the long, plentiful days of summer had just made.

It started off mundanely enough. A routine they had followed for months. A Sunday afternoon walk around the lake, wrapped up tight against the cold that penetrated even into the lungs and then escaped out again in misty breaths. The smell of wood smoke and fir cones hung lazily on the air. Under their feet the soft, spongy bed of pine needles was buried beneath the brittle crisp layer of frozen snow so they crunched as they walked. Sounds magnified and echoed through the stillness, a gaggle of Canadian geese high above, honking loudly as they gossiped like old women with no sense of decorum, on the wing and flying to someplace else.

All their senses were bombarded with the sheer beauty of existence. 

The path, slumbering under a white snowy shroud, sloped down around the lake, now covered with a silver sheen of sheer, sinister ice. There was a boathouse through the trees and a number of wooden jetties dusted in white stretched hesitantly out into the glacial lake. The watery weak sun shone from a bleak sky promising more snow as they made their way along the treacherous pathway through a battalion of tall, snow-capped fir trees standing at perfect attention. A plough of some sort had obviously cut a path since the last storm a couple of days before as deeper heaps of snow were piled at the side. Further nightly frosts and flurries had rutted the surface so badly that they were slithering and sliding as they walked but really paying it no mind. They were used to it, complacently so. It was a forest in winter. 

Franny and Granser had gone on ahead to disappear beyond a bend and the excited barking of the dog as well as the little girl's shrieks of delight came back to them as they walked hand in hand. 

Carrie smiled. "She really loves it here."

Quinn nodded. "That's all that matters."

Carrie opened her mouth to respond but an ear-shattering crack rent through the air like the tolling bell of doom. Ganser' s barks changed in pitch to a panicked yelp and Franny screamed.

"What the fuck?" Carrie shouted as she began to run. 

Quinn ran too although, when he didn't have the aid of gravity and skis and had to rely on his own still wasted muscles, he was slower. So much so that by the time he rounded the corner to see the full horror of the scene, impetuous Carrie had already flung herself into action.

The cracking noise was, of course, from the ice on the lake. Ganser had run out over the seemingly strong surface and made it a good fifty yards into the centre before his weight had been too great for a thinner patch to bear. He had gone into the frozen water and Franny, being Franny and too like her mother, had followed. She had got about halfway to the struggling hound before the ice had parted and the freezing water had made its claim on her. She was bobbing up and down now, red, sodden coat bright against the stark grey background.

Carrie rushed out onto the death trap too.

"Cccccarrie!" Quinn screamed. "Wait!"

But even as he said the words, the hairline cracks fingered towards her like a pane of glass shattering in slow motion. She made it, slipping and sliding, as far as Franny but as she bent to scoop up her child, there was another massive cracking sound, the ice sheeted away and she went tumbling into freezing blackness.

Quinn stood on the side of the lake and watched as his whole world sank beneath the treacherous dark water. 

He could not let it stand. He had come too far, suffered too much to get to this place, to finally understand what true joy was. He would not allow it to disappear to the bottom of a goddamn lake.

So, manically he glanced about himself looking for help, for anything that could aid him. Grasping hold of a fallen but still quite hefty branch, he gingerly made his way out on to the ice. He stopped when he got to the part that was cracking. Carrie had hold of Franny and was trying to climb out but didn't have the strength to pull her fully clothed and saturated body onto the continually shifting shelf of ice. Her lips were turning blue, teeth chattering, face pale but her eyes were flashing wildly around, powered by pure panic.

"Carrie!" he shouted. "Look at me!"

She looked at him, gulping in air, as Franny struggled and they went under again, only to pop up spluttering and shivering.

"Shit!" Quinn felt helpless but he knew if he went any further out he would just end up in the water with them. He considered it, wondering if he would be able to lift them out to safety and sacrifice himself but knew that he didn't have the strength.

Ganser's cries had got even higher pitched and more pitiful as he tried to haul himself out on paws that simply skittered off the slippery ice. The water kept pulling the frantic dog back down and finally with little more than a weak yelp he went under into the water, ambiguous and deadly. He didn't come up again.

Carrie and Franny, on the other hand were gasping and still fighting. 

"Carrie!" Quinn called again.

This time she looked at him, saw the branch he was desperately stretching out across the ice toward her and tried to grab it. It slipped through her frozen fingers. He tried again, fighting down his own panic as it festered in his gut, spreading like a bloodstain on a pristine white shirt. Fear, brittle and brutal, raged through him, he knew that time was running out but he had to stay calm. Think this one through.

Finally, Carrie caught the branch, grunting in her exertion, she pulled Franny around and got her to grasp the cold wood, beseeching her to hold on tight. Then, with a frustrated growl, Carrie bumped her daughter up as Quinn pulled the branch back. Slowly, very slowly and with much straining, Franny's small, chubby body, lifted out of the water and back on to the ice. Moving further forward then he should, but unable to stop himself, Quinn reached out and grabbed the trembling girl, unzipping his coat, and pulling her under his arm into the warmth in one fluid movement. She was shaking and moaning softly.

"Get her away!" Carrie hissed. "I can get out on my own." She tried throwing herself up onto the ice but every time she did so she slid back in. 

The ice was cracking further. The branch that Quinn had discarded in order to envelope Franny into the warmth of his jacket, was sucked into the water and lost as Quinn made a desperate but useless swipe to retrieve it.

For the first time, with a strangled moan, Carrie realised she couldn't do it, couldn't get out on her own. "Quinn!" she shouted in desperation.

He looked from her to the top of Franny's head beside him and back to the fighting woman again. He knew he had to try, knew it might cost him everything. So, holding the sniffling little girl tightly at his weaker side, he lay down on to the ice and slowly so slowly, edged his way towards struggling Carrie.

"Quinn!" 

He was close, reaching out his good hand, trying to stop Franny struggling, he clasped hold of Carrie's hand, it was a block of ice and as soon as he grabbed it, he could feel it slipping away.

"I got you," he groaned.

"Quinn, I can't...."

"Yes, yes, you can."

Carrie was struggling now as the basic urge to survive grabbed at her, chasing all rational thought from her mind. She lurched forward, her other hand reaching out and grabbing the collar of Quinn's coat, then she was falling backwards again, pulling him down.

The shock of the chill was deadening, his head went into the freezing water as she splashed down taking the top half of his body into the drink with her. He gulped in and a wave of cold flushed through him, numbing everything as the brackish liquid froze into his startled lungs. All sounds were suddenly muffled and distant, the water bubbled into his ears and his vision blurred to black. 

He coughed, spluttered, managed to pull himself up and away, back onto the wet, but still strong enough to bear his weight, ice. He tasted the sweet air, its invigorating relative warmth after the cloying icy liquid and Carrie's screams forced their way back into his ears. Water ran down his face, freezing in lines of minute icicles along the sharp line of his cheeks and nose and in the stubble that framed his chin. Carrie's hand was still clamped onto his neck, knuckles white and bulging. She was trying to climb out again, trying to climb over him to get away, oblivious that she was endangering him and her daughter, pushing his head down towards the looming water.

He marshalled his strength, tried to stay focused. "Carrie," he growled, shaking his head, droplets of cold water spraying out from his wet hair like raindrops from a shaking dog. "Let go of me."

"Save me!" She screamed, primeval, selfish desire, pushing her on. The will to survive so strong it chased away every other thought from her head. This was basic instinct. She wanted to live above everything else. Nothing else mattered, he could see it flashing in her frenzied eyes, in the ugly set of her face, the urgent clutch of her hands; she was past rational, past caring, survival was all.

"You're gonna fucking kill us all!" he spat but she didn't hear, didn't comprehend the danger as the ice cracked even more.

Franny was wriggling beside him, crying, crushed by the weight, and Carrie was slipping. Quinn took a deep breath and willed strength back into his failing limbs. If he could only......

.... but he couldn't. He didn't have the strength to save both of his girls. He had a choice to make.

Carrie was a dead weight forcing him down towards the black water again. With both hands occupied, he tried to shake her desperate grip from his collar, pulling away. "Carrie, you have to let go of me! I can't save you this way."

"Fuck. Quinn. Help me..." She was fighting with the last remains of her strength, fighting for her life but the pull of the water was stronger as it sapped her vigour, her lifeforce. It had her now and if refused to let her go. Her hand fell away from his collar and she was slithering away from him. The darkness was claiming her. The darkness that stalked him, that was always at his shoulder but never took him, only those he loved. It was always his fault but he never paid the ultimate price. 

He knew with clinical certainty that he didn't have the strength to save both Franny and Carrie. He glanced desperately over his shoulder, saw there were others now gathered on the banks of the lake. Some were gingerly trying to get to them and he prayed for more time.

But it was already too late.

"Help me...." Carrie screamed through hard, frozen lips, eyes bulging imploring him, and then her other hand, her last connection to life, to him, slid through his grasping one, even as he tried so hard to clench hold of it, and she slipped away.

"Carrie!" he roared, lurching toward her but the water opened up to receive her like a grave, swallowing her with no mercy and then closing around where she had disappeared, its surface ironically calm and still, as if nothing had happened, deep, dark and unconcerned.

But Quinn's carefully constructed world had been simply smashed apart. 

Carrie Mathison was lost.

Gone to the bottom of the lake with Ganser, for all eternity.


	8. Chapter 8

"What's in a name, that which we call a rose, by any other name would still smell as sweet." 

Love a bit of Shakespeare. 

I would have loved to study him more but the sciences took precedent.... you don't become a veterinary physician by brushing up on the classics, as one of my university professors was heard to say should any of his erstwhile students appear to be flirting with the arty side of academia. But I do agree. It takes a fucking long slog through college and a hell of a lot of support to become a veterinary physician. I know cos I’ve done it.

Anyway, that was a few years ago. Here I am now, sitting at the table at my own wedding. Christ, I never thought I would get this far. Now that the champagne has gone straight to my head, I'm getting a bit teary. I hope they bring the food soon. It wouldn't do for the bride to ruin her makeup, now would it?

So, I guess it's only natural to get a bit emotional in the quiet moments of a day like today. And I'm looking at my father, soldier back straight, black hair greying at the temples, buttoned down, still the most beautiful man in the room, sitting beside me as always. He's alone, distinct, he stands apart like a brooding panther with raw danger pulsing through his veins. 

He’s just finished his speech, there’s still the hint of a rosy flush on those perfectly chiselled cheeks. I know others were worried about him, that he wouldn’t manage to talk in front of a group of people, even though everyone is a friend here, that his words would fail him. I wasn’t. I know that when he sets his mind to something, regardless of his physical limitations, he will do it. He hesitated for a while at the beginning, but he didn’t let that stop him. He has never let anything stop him and he delivered a beautiful, wry, moving, speech in his calm, depreciating way.

He talked about me of course, that’s what the father of the bride is supposed to do on her wedding day, embarrass her, right? But also of my mother and how proud she would be to see me here today. He had them set a place for Carrie Mathison, right beside me at the top table, so her presence would be felt. He misses her still I know but he doesn’t dwell on the loss, prefers to remember the couple of years of happiness they shared. I suspect, in his darkest moments, he yearns to join her, but not while I still need him, not while his mission is not finished. He even mentioned my father. I think only I picked up the strain in his voice, the hesitation at that point. Whatever went down between them, and he has told me a little but not too many details, I guess they didn’t like each other very much. But that’s OK. That was a different time, when he was a different man.

He spoke of the thousands of times throughout my childhood, I came home from the forest with wounded animals and I nursed them back to health, that I was always attracted to broken things and had an overwhelming need to fix them. The rabbits were always my favourites and without fail, regardless of their sex, I would call them Peter. What he neglected to say was that he was the one that sat up all night to make sure that the bundle of fur was still alive when I woke up the next morning.

There were tears in his eyes and his voice faltered a touch, when he spoke of his pride at being able to ‘limp’ (his word not mine) me down the aisle. He spoke of our shared past and his hopes for my future. His audience were all sniffing and laughing in bittersweet appreciation by the time he had finished.

He remains a class act.

Sitting here with the laughter and the joy tinged with aged sadness, I just got to thinking where would I be without him?

As I said he's not even my proper dad. 

His blood doesn’t run through my veins. We share no DNA. It wasn't his sperm that swam its brave way to throw itself into my mother's egg and kick start the process that created me. 

He was around then though, supporting my mom, telling her things would be all right, that I was a gift. Doing all the things my father should have done. 

Oh yes, he had her back when nobody else did. Fuck nature, nurture wins for me every time!

Looking around the room I see happy faces, friends, family. Not too many, that's another thing he taught me; quality not quantity that counts. I can't believe Grandpa Dar, on his new top-of-the-range mobility scooter is hitting on that cute waiter with the floppy hair and razor-sharp cheekbones. He is incorrigible! Uncle Max is trying to defuse the situation and failing, as ever. You would have thought he would be better at it with all the practise he gets looking after that dirty old man. Still at least he has Aunt Sylvie to help him these days.

And Aunt Jasmine and her boys, who I grew up with around the lake, so close, even closer since cancer took Aunt Vicky three years past fall. Bless Vicky and all the work she did to keep the two of us together in those early days, just after my mother passed, and Child Services had a mind to take me away from him.

He's sitting at the table, still, silent, alone in a crowd of people. There is something that keeps him apart, something deep within, the weight of the past that means he will never be like everyone else. A history that means that any joy he now experiences has been paid for many times over in previous pain and suffering. I know things about him, he hasn't told me but I know. It's always been like this between us, like osmosis or something. I have felt the darkness that he tries so hard to control, know it haunts him still, have seen the volcanic anger that can enflame at the smallest spark but never at me. I have never been scared of him. I have always known he will never hurt me. That feeling goes right back to the fuzzy depths of my memory where I can recall a dark house, guns and flashing blue lights. He was there and he kept me safe.

He has always kept me safe.

He is quite simply a force of nature. He exists in his own space and time. He does what he wants, when he wants to do it with the graceful, carefree poise of a dancer, untouched by the momentum of others' lives. It caused problems when I was younger; school timetables and routines were not something he could be tied down by, but eventually they came to adapt to suit him, nobody bothered further because it was him.

He is stubborn and obstinate but never inelegant. I remember one time I got so upset with him because he entered the fathers race in our school sports and came last by a mile. I was so humiliated by him, thought everybody was laughing at me, my dad the cripple, that I didn’t talk the whole way home. The following weekend he took me to the highest peak in the area and we climbed it together, took us all day because it was an extreme walk. But he said to me then; speed is not the important thing, endurance is what counts. Survival is the key to everything. As long as you are in the game, you can still win.

He gave his time to me without censure, always, whenever I called. There is not a moment from my childhood that I can remember that he was not there when I needed him. My guardian angel. He indulged me, some would say spoilt me, but he raised me on love, pure and simple, and I will be forever grateful.

Don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t easy to live with. The darkness could come on him at any time, be triggered by anything and though he would fight it with all the fury in his soul, sometimes it would win and then I learned quickly to leave him to ride out the storm alone. Only returning to him hours later with a coffee and a cuddle to bring him back to the world.

And I had my moments, I wasn’t the best-behaved kid on the planet for sure but I knew when his eyes froze to the colour of ice that I had overstepped the mark, pushed his boundaries too far. And I knew from a young age that I didn't want to feel that chill, didn't want to upset him. He had suffered so, I determined I would not be the cause of further angst if I could possibly help it.

Aunt Maggie says I look like my mom, except for the red hair, of course. That’s a blessing and a curse, I have always hated my freckles! It was hard after my mother died. Those were dark times. I thought he would leave me too, be subsumed by the power of his grief, the potency of his loss. Blame me. But he didn't, he stayed, became the constant, the rock of my childhood and my later life. 

Always here. 

Always has my back. 

I was his world and he mine. As I grew older, however, he knew how to let me go; his life had been spent learning the lesson that the tighter you clutch hold of something, the more inevitable it is that you will lose it. Gradually he stepped back, let me make the rules, trusted my choice although he was always close, watching over me. He let me make my own mistakes, let me fall but only so far, he was always there to provide the safety net. So much so, that even in my teenage years, when those boundaries were made to be broken, surprisingly, there were no scenes with semi-automatics or beaten boyfriends. To be fair, just a flash of his assassin stare was enough to chill the ardour of most of my wimpy dates, they were no match for him at all. 

But the important thing was, he let me live as I wished and I flourished.

We had a charmed existence in our cabin in the woods, surrounded by friends, protected from the harsh realities of the real world. It was a childhood of peace and love and he gave me that.

Tragedy makes you strong. I guess, when you are forged in steel you develop an indurate casing and nobody has come from a hotter furnace than him. He sucks it up, tames his pain into something manageable and moves on. He has grown even stronger with each heartbreak he has faced. As if, he would wish such horror on no one, but if it has to be borne, he will take it on himself because he knows he has the strength and vigour to withstand it. No one is more experienced, better qualified to carry such burdens. 

Deep inside, behind walls he has spent a lifetime constructing, all of the heartache and hurt is neatly corralled, trapped, controlled and he lets nobody see it but I know it's there. Sometimes I sense his despair and my heart aches for him, but I also feel his resilience and it makes our bond even tougher.

Hope.

Hope is the flame that fuels him. Even after everything, he still fundamentally believes that good will triumph, that life is worth the pain it brings and it is there to be lived. He brought me up to love nature, to fish in the lake, to gaze at the stars in the black velvet night sky, to trust my instinct and to live as if our place on this planet is a gift not a right. 

He looks towards me now and we share a moment, an understanding, a mutual thankfulness. Of course, he has the shyest dimples on this earth, they hardly ever come out but when they do and he smiles, truly smiles, it's like the sun shining on a stark white snowfield, two times the intensity, two times the beauty. His eyes often laugh but he hardly ever relaxes his whole face except with me. We share a sense of humour, we laugh at the silliest things, see fun where no one else can. We are a pair.

He smiles at me now and I bathe in the light.

When he loves, and that is never without care, he loves deeply, regardless of the love he receives in return. It is his biggest strength and his greatest weakness. I have tried to give back at least a little of what he has given me.

There's a special link between father and daughter. He is my rock, my stability. I lost both my natural parents pretty young but I never felt abandoned because he was there. He makes all things possible. He is the yardstick against which I measure everyone else. My foundation. My moral compass. He brought light when the darkness threatened to consume me, wiped away my tears, held me in through the deepest night, carried me when my world was shattered and placed me on firm, solid legs so I can hold my head high as I walk boldly through the rest of my life.

He has never left or forsaken me.

People worry that he won’t cope without me, that’s just bullshit. I was away at college and he survived. Now my surgery will be just down the road, in the same woods that he raised me. Besides, he has faced and triumphed over far greater challenges than this, been shattered and broken but risen again. You knock him down, he just bounces back, shouting hit me harder! In truth it’s my new hubby, Alex, who should worry because he has one hell of a guy, the toughest act, to follow.

I never even shared his name but that's not important, as Shakespeare said ‘A rose by any other name…’ and he’s been called by a few but the only one that is important to me is the one I name him...... 

…………. Dad.


End file.
